The Continuing Spirit
by Cait the Bookworm
Summary: A Guardian is someone sent to other worlds to deal with messes out of other's hands. A mysterious company come out of nowhere and start meddling with the Guardian's jobs, getting their attention. The Guardian is torn from following the path they've been following all throughout their existence, and following a new one proposed- with fewer limitations and more freedom.
1. Introduction

Hello all!

For this story, I'm going to write a list of chapter references for each arc. The idea is that this universe will be used for short stories I come up with but aren't really long enough to warrant posting. And since I got back into COD: MW when I was writing this- this is the first story I'm starting from. If you have requests, feel free to let me know, but I've also got a story for Grimm planned out- for this universe- and am beginning to draft out one for Kingsman,.

Anyway, I hope the prologue covers most things you would want to know- being posted after this- but if there is any questions, then feel free to ask!

~Cait

* * *

Chapter References

Chapters 1- ? : Call of Duty, Modern Warfare, 1-3


	2. Prologue

The Prologue

To truly understand this tale, we first need to cover a few things. First, a brief biology lesson. The human race is a blank slate essentially. An empty program, clean, free to do whatever they liked. Contrary to what they might believe, a human was created with no purpose. The whole point of their existence was to do whatever they wanted and if you could classify that as a purpose then so be it.

With that introduction over, then we have to yet again twist your perception further. The Multiverse theory? It is real. Every universe is interconnected, with some having acknowledgement of the different Multiverses, and some, like potentially your own, not having any of this knowledge. Have you ever heard of your favourite author or director having the idea for their latest book or film come from a dream? I'd bet you've just realised one just from that prompt.

Well, that idea, I hate to say it, isn't original. Often, when they have these 'dreams', it is simply their mind wandering into another universe. The thing is, much like your own life, problems arise in earnest. In plenty. And sometimes, the problems cannot be solved by the inhabitants of that universe alone. This is why the Guardian was created. Going by many names, sometimes foretold in arrival by universes, and in other's non-existent, their job was to travel through the universes, solving any problems, before leaving once again.

The Guardian often took the form of a human but was unlimited to the confines of common humans. This is why they were referred to as 'they'. Depending on the Universe they went into, they would take a different gender. This may be commonly known as a gender-fluid character. Such things as sex and gender did not bother the Guardian, whose only goal was to solve the contracted problems.

I bet you think it sounds like such an exciting life; for, after all, the ability to travel in and out of worlds sounds like a dream come true for many. But the problem was, there were several rules that had to be followed, otherwise, they ran the risk of having their powers removed, their job title removed, and becoming a blank slate in one of the Universe's they had visited before.

Rule number 1 was: Do not interfere in the intended progression of events. That meant, that, no matter how bad the scenario, they were _not _to interfere, and could only interfere in things that could potentially affect the progression. Over the millennia that they had been doing their job, they had watched many people go and die. People they had grown to know while in their respective Universe. They had never known the feeling of blood-family, and the only family they got were the people they met.

The second worst thing was that there were often various forms of the same Universe- called Parallel Universes. These were often created by a decision, a fork in the road, and could lead to a different end-point. Since they were often travelling through these Parallel Universes, they often saw people who they had met before, but who no recognition at all of them. They were used to being forgotten.

I'm sure that I've perhaps portrayed the Guardian with a sense of impassivity, that they are simply emotionless, but that was not true. They did have emotion, a lot of it in fact, but they had it ripped away from them so many times that it was hard for them to let people close. Even though they tried, people got close, every, single, time. I bet the 'dream come true' statement, isn't looking so appealing any more, is it?

The second rule was: Never tell them who or what you are. That second rule was a convoluted one. You couldn't tell them you were a Guardian unless they themselves managed to guess it. This didn't happen very often, as most people didn't even know about Guardians, but every so often someone would notice. You could tell them what race you were, what your assigned name was in that Universe. The whole reason for its implementation was that in certain Universes, few that there were, some liked to hunt Guardians.

They had been caught once and tortured for a long time. But then they'd been rescued, and well, that rule had been created. There had been fewer torturing instances since then since with age comes experience, and they had a lot of that. But like I said, it was convoluted as all hell. The Guardian could feel pain. Just like emotions, pain was a very real thing.

They could not die, no, not unless their powers were stripped, but pain was something they could very much feel. Every cut or slice hurt, and yes, they could be knocked out. But it wasn't easy, it took a lot of effort to knock them out. Lethal poisons, for example, would not kill but would cause excruciating pain and presumably knock them out if the concentration was strong enough.

The third rule was the most important, and one that was the most punishable: You weren't allowed to fall in love. Cliche as it may sound, falling in love created 'unnecessary' bonds that would tie the Guardian down, and restrict them from doing their jobs correctly. Despite not really being human, they were still liable to human emotions, causing conflict.

Now, when a Guardian goes to a Universe, they are given very specific tools that aids them to complete their goal. The first of which was a book. Yes, a book. Only open-able by the Guardian in question, it details how the timeline would progress. Not only does this book do that, but it also details what their identity will be for that specific Universe, act as a notebook and a map, but it keeps track of the main people within the Universe.

The secondary tool of their trade was what looked to be a normal pen but really wasn't. Like many other things, it adapted to the circumstances. It formed a weapon because when a Guardian went into a Universe, they were likely to run into trouble. For instance, in one Universe, like yours, the pen might become a gun, with self-reloading bullets, but in another, it could become a sword.

The last primary tool of their trade was a necklace. Upon wearing, it could change what they were wearing to anything the user had in mind. It could also produce a set of armour if so required. When it was in use, the necklace would hide against the Guardian's skin. They had a few tools, less commonly used ones, that tended to be left as a backup.

When a Guardian went into a Universe, they may become a race or creature that has certain abilities or powers. They then incorporate the powers of that race, along with the few they had as a servant of Death and Life.

Powers a Guardian have are very subtle in nature: they can influence conversations to a certain degree, they are inherently fluent in any language that could be conceivable, they are immune to diseases and have faster healing then most humans, and if required, can talk to the deceased spirits or other inanimate objects. However, should they take the form of a race that has not got the enhanced healing, then it will not exist, merely serving to keep them alive and not immediately heal them.

But enough of that, perhaps we should discuss what Universe our resident Guardian is visiting next. Our Guardian, the one we are following, is not new to their job. They've been doing it for six millennia. The manifestation of them- a ball oddly reminiscent of the equinox- stood in front of two undefined figures, one highlighted in pure green, the other in a hazy, midnight sky purple colour.

The surroundings were deep and black, like the night sky, but without the bright stars shining the way. The only entities were the two figures and the Guardian we follow. The purple figure began to speak, the voice sounding feminine, but echoing like several choir singers singing at the same time.

"Guardian. We have a new assignment for you."

There was no response from the Guardian, as they knew their place in this hierarchy that they had lived their whole life in. The whole situation lacked a distinct human-like quality, serving to remind us that they weren't human- nobody in the space was. This time, the green figure, with a voice that had undercurrents of both feminine and masculine tones, waved their hand, an orb reminiscent of Earth, our Earth, appearing out of thin air.

It spun around a few times, before stopping at a particularly large landmass, a small dot appearing, later labelled 'Credenhill, UK.' Even if the Guardian could presently display any emotion, it would be likely that it would be kept hidden: they weren't exactly used to sharing emotion.

"You will be entering in a place called Credenhill, in the United Kingdom, under the command of a Sergeant from the 22nd SAS Regiment. You should be familiar with this Universe, even if the directive is different."

A quick interlude on the matter of Universes. A 'Main' Universe, is essentially the idea that the Universe follows. This sounds confusing in the manner I have explained it, and I have found it is best to explain it while providing an example. Just give me a moment to find one that lines up with your Universe. Ah. So, if we take 'Red Dead Redemption 2' as an example.

That seems to be a known thing in your world, yes? The Main Universe would be the story: Arthur Morgan, his redemption, and so on and so forth. The Main Universe is the way that the story would normally progress. The 'Canon' ending, if you will so will please. Branching off the Main Universe, there would be very similar, smaller Universes: called Adjacent Universes.

These would detail different paths, and using our example would include things such as the 'Good' ending, 'bad' ending, and the 'neutral' ending. With that hopefully explained, we shall return to what the Guardian is witnessing currently.

"Your new mission is one that takes place in an Adjacent Universe this time."

They nodded, looking at the figure that was Life, absently wondering where Death had disappeared off to in the small lapse in conversation, but not vocalising their question. It wouldn't matter either way, as Life likely wouldn't answer it. Next to Life, a picture appeared, showing a man with scruffy brown hair with matching brown eyes, a scar going down his cheek, and dressed in what seemed to be a military uniform.

There were a lot of Universes that they could be visiting, so there was no point in making a guess. By his side, there was what looked to be a SCAR-H, its distinctive muzzle noticeable to them after years of experience with the said weapon. It gave them a very specific idea of _what _Universe they were going to. The picture moved aside, revealing some personal information about the person they were going to portray. '_Name, James Gibben, nationality, Scottish.' _

"In this Adjacent Universe, everybody- that being, notable characters- _must _survive. You _cannot _let any of them die, otherwise, it will be a failure on your part. You already have extensive knowledge of this Universe, so I expect perfection. Otherwise, there will be consequences."  
Again, the Guardian did not bother to ask any questions, knowing they would not be deigned with an answer. Especially with that threat that was not subtle in the slightest. Nodding, they turned and walked towards where they would enter the latest Adjacent Universe, the events of the previous one still lingering on their mind. They always did.. and they would never forget the impact they had, for better or for worse.

"You will be entering in a place called Credenhill, in the United Kingdom, under the command of a Sergeant from the 22nd SAS Regiment. You should be familiar with this Universe, even if the directive is different."

Credenhill is a place that you might recognise from your Universe. It is, after all, a real place. It's in Hereford, England, and it does indeed have several different barracks- including one for the SAS and one for the RAF, depending on which route you would want to take into the military. The facility was expansive, considering the nature of Credenhill the village, with training facilities, a fully functioning hospital and accompanying medical facilities, PT Trainers and of course, specialist training available for different areas.

If you wanted to specialise in medical training, then there were several celebrated nurses and doctors you could train under, just like there were specialists in demolitions and sniping. And demolitions was an area that the Guardian's cover happened to specialise in, along with CQC and CQW: Close Quarters Combat and Close Quarters Weaponry. The living spaces at Credenhill were extremely comfortable, even if you had to bunk with others, but that was because the training was a hard slog.

Only the best of the best got to stay at Credenhill full time- full time excluding mission time. Now, back to the Guardian, who had turned away from Life, and instead moved towards the white portal which had lit up, it being his transport to the Universe he was going to. It had been a while since he had been to the _normal _version of the UK.

Without any speech from the Guardian, a white flashy portal, which threw off sparks, appeared behind the three figures. The Guardian turned to walk into it- or float, considering the ethereal form didn't have any legs,- and without further ado, the portal sealed shut the minute they stepped through, into another Universe that needed saving, which was just another day in the life for the Guardian.

* * *

Author's Note

Here's the prologue. Next chapter we actually kick off the plot!

~Cait


	3. Chapter 1 - Who Dares, Wins

_ "The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him."_

_― G.K. Chesterton_

* * *

Chapter 1 – Who Dares, Wins

[F.N.G]

[Credenhill, UK]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Blinking, he recognised where he was soon after opening his eyes. He was in a large warehouse, with what seemed to be a large boat in the centre, with scaffolding near the bow with what seemed to be a ladder. Looking around, he saw two men standing near him, looking over him with a scrutiny that he was accustomed to. Both men were in military like uniforms, with one reading and the other reading . These men were his superiors, especially as he was just a Lieutenant.

"I hear you're from my neck o' the woods Lad."

MacTavish said, his Scottish brogue standing out amongst the silence in the warehouse. He nodded, and for the first time spoke out in his own Scottish brogue, sounding not too dissimilar to MacTavish's own. It was an unusual choice, and he rarely portrayed someone who had such an accent. Usually he would be English, American, or one of the other larger countries. Still, it was a pleasant change, if it could be described as such.

"Aye, Sir."

He had a part to play, and he intended to play it well. Captain Price's face was neutral, not betraying anything. He kept his own face neutral, not completely impassive but so that he was not easy to read. He had to come off as good in order to enter the Bravo Squad, and it was easier for Life and Death to place him into a position where he could be considered, then spawn a new person already in.

And it was easier for them to create a person then to take over somebody already existing. And while the moral duality didn't matter to Life and Death, it did effect him, because he always felt that it was wrong.

"What's your name and call sign, Kid?"

"James Gibben, Sir. Call-Sign Echo."

He replied to Price, matching his look with his own one, trying not to convey any false confidence or some other quality that wouldn't be appreciated in a squad mate. Price was a good leader, as was Soap for that matter, and previous experiences proved they were good men. As were those they commanded. They were enjoyable men to hang around with, if he could ever define something like that as enjoyable, and had he been a normal person, then he would have enjoyed living this life, even with all the death.

Price cleared his throat, adjusting the hat that settled on top of his head, and watched him carefully. He played his part, adjusting his stance and shifting his weight from foot to foot in an attempt to feign nervousness. How much of it was feigning and how much of it was real was something only he would know.

Soap threw him a comm which he caught effortlessly, placing it in his ear and initialising it. As Price began to speak, he could hear the echo of Price's voice through it, signifying that it was working.

"Now, members of Bravo Squad need to work fast and most importantly, accurately. We can't afford for civvies to be hurt because you shoot bull-headedly. Go to the deck."

Nodding, he turned and jogged towards the ladder, putting all thoughts of Life and Death out of his mind. They were irrelevant for the mission at hand, and he couldn't afford to dwell on it. Honestly, he could run this course with his eyes shut, with no exaggeration there due to his experiences here, but he couldn't afford that.

It would look suspicious if a newbie- or at least, someone brand new to the squad and this exercise- ran it perfectly, and acting before Price said anything. Reaching up, he lifted himself up and rapidly climbed the ladder. There was no point in dallying.

_Pick up the MP5 and four flashbangs._

Obliging, he nestled his pistol in its rightful holder, after checking it was reloaded, and then picked up the MP5, making sure that its clip was full- it was- and that the safety was on. Checking the mechanism quickly, he was satisfied, and so nestled his grip on it, making sure it was firm and steady.

_On my go, I want you to rope down to the deck and rush to position 1. After that, you will storm down the stairs to position 2. Then hit positions 3 and 4, following my precise instructions at each position. Grab the rope when you're ready._

Shouldering his weapon, he placed his hands on the rope, not gripping too hard in order to avoid rope burn. There was no advanced healing to heal any wounds this time. Plus it wouldn't exactly give him a good reputation if he got injured from something as simple as sliding down a rope. Fortunately, he was used to the manoeuvre. He tensed, waiting for the go ahead, his back foot coiling up, ready to spring.

_Go, go, go! Hit the targets!_

He skidded down the rope, and dropped off the bottom before the end of the rope. Quickly pulling out his pistol, he flicked off the safety, and shot the two targets in front of him, sending them down as he sprinted ahead to position 2. On his way through the door, he 'killed' the third target, before switching to his MP5 midway through.

_Position 2, go!_

He was already ahead of Price's instructions. Sprinting down the stairs, he shot the target in the mid section half way down, before turning into the doorway, his hand tensing on the flashbang as he waited for Price's instruction.

_Flashbang, through the door! Hit the targets!_

Taking the pin out, he threw it through the door, taking cover behind the door frame as to avoid the blinding light. In the time it took for the light to die down, he reloaded his MP5, ready to shoot as he breached the room, just as Price called out another order.

_Position 5! Hit the targets!_

Running through the next door, he shot the two targets that were in front of him and on his right side without blinking, hurtling through the next door and following the red arrows that were serving to direct him.

_Six, go!_

As he approached the sixth door frame, the one he had passed earlier, Price called out for him to throw another flashbang through the door. Quickly taking one out with his left hand and unpinning it skilfully, he threw it, with it spinning, into the room, illuminating it with light as he turned away in an attempt to protect his corneas. He shot the two targets dead, sprinting through the final door, and towards the end, when Price called out his final command.

_Final position, go! Sprint to the finish!_

Shouldering his gun, he sprinted out of the final door, exiting the ship, and sprinted to the large red circle, landing on it with his right foot. He was panting a little, partially due to exhaustion and partially because he was trying to not be in perfect fitness, as Soap came over.

He took the comm out of his ear, and turned it off, passing it to Soap who took it. He took off all his weapons and put them on the box with the others, just as Soap began to speak, the man only having spoken once during this whole thing.

"Not bad Lieutenant. A little faster and you'd of beaten Gaz. Now come on over to the monitors for debrief."

He nodded, walking over to where Price was waiting, along with Gaz and the other members of the SAS Squad. Price rested his hands on the monitors, looking over something which looked to be set in Saudi Arabia. It was nice to know where exactly he was in the chronology side of things.

"Gentlemen. Al-Asad executed President Al-Fulani on national television. The Yanks have plans for Al-Asad. And it's too late to do anything for Al-Fulani. But in less than three hours code-name Nikolai will be executed in Russia."  
It looked like Operation Blackout would be his first mission then. Not the cargo ship like he would have guessed originally. On the screen it showed a Saudi looking man waving a silver Desert Eagle in front of a tied up man, who was assumed to be the President.

The camera cut out shortly after some words were exchanged in Arabic, with the bullet going through the President's head, causing him to hang limply like a puppet who had their strings cut. At least the kill was quick, Echo found himself thinking. The screen cut off, and Gaz, who was standing to his right, moved his eyes from the monitor and towards Price.

"Nikolai sir?"

The monitor pulled up a profile of Nikolai, along with a pinpoint that was in a camp. The pinpoint was in Russia, which would be both remote and cold. Not the most ideal conditions, but there were worse places to operate. He knew this from experience.

"Nikolai is our informant in the Ultranationalist camp. He supplied the intel on the cargoship operation."

Gaz nodded in understanding, and Echo found himself feigning confusion on the cargoship information. He would be told later. It was lucky that he had become accustomed to lying and feigning emotions, because it was not an easy thing to keep up constantly while trying to get people to trust him. On the monitor, alongside the picture of Nikolai, it came up in bold writing '_Objective: Rescue Nikolai.'_

"Nikolai's in hell right now. We're gonna walk him out…"

He paused, looking at the Squad as they assembled. Although assumption was a dangerous thing, Echo assumed that he had made the cut, as they were including him in the briefing. Price picked up from where he had drifted off what he was saying, removing his look from the monitor and looking at all of his squad in turn.

"...We take care of our friends. Wheels up in thirty."

Soap clapped him on the shoulder, causing him to look at Soap, walking forwards with the man.

"Come on Echo. I'll show you where the kit is."

* * *

The storage room in Credenhill was expansive, with different types of weapons littering the wall like neat decorations. Rifles were leaned against the back wall, different makes and models grouped together. Scopes were sorted into different magnifications in little boxes, sealed tightly. There was a little writing pad by the door, in which you had to sign out weapons and make sure that they were returned.

There were pistols hung against the wall like they were on a tool board, ranging from Desert Eagles to your regular and more common M1911. People of high ranks, such as Price, tended to have their own pistols, a significance of power and rank. It was like a reward. Most of them had custom engravings or something that was significant to the member in question. Still, he was just a Lieutenant, so he didn't have anything like that. It didn't matter to him either way, because a weapon was just a weapon.

"What would you recommend for the mission?"

Soap shrugged, moving over to a Sniper Rifle, a M21 to be specific. One of Soap's specialities was sniper support, so it didn't surprise him that Soap was taking one. Soap unlocked one of the 16x magnification scopes, before screwing it on to the top of the M21, raising it up to his eye in experimentation. There were no mags in it, so it's not like it would have fired anything even if Soap had pulled the trigger.

"Well, your specialities are CQC, CQW and demolitions right? We'll definitely be in close quarters, which should play ti yer specialities, so I'd take an assault rifle. Do you prefer automatic or semi-automatic?"

Echo looked up at the pistols on the wall, before ignoring them and instead moving towards the rifles stacked along the left side where the Assault Rifles were. Soap slung the M21 over his back, before moving over to where Echo was standing, looking over the same selection of weapons. Soap leaned forwards, pulling out a weapon off the wall and admiring it.

Soap moved away from him, as Echo leaned forwards and pulling out the very same weapon. He admired it, with its weight being fairly light and not too heavy. Soap reappeared, reappearing with a selection of different attachments, some of which Echo recognised.

"That's a SOPMOD- or a Special Operations Peculiar Modification. Fancy and short way o' sayin a wide selection of attachments, including a red dot sight, laser, silencer, and grenade launcher, for when things go boom. Useful for weapons like this needed for missions like this."

"I think I'll take one of them then."

Soap nodded, before gesturing to a series of boxes in the centre of the room.

"The SOPMOD modules are in there. I'd recommend taking a Sniper Rifle along with a sidearm, for close quarters."

Nodding, he moved over to where the SOPMOD's were stored, and began to screw them all onto the weapon, making it look significantly different to what it looked like before. Once that was slung over his back, he moved over to the sidearm display, retrieving a M1911 and screwing a silencer.

He picked up the very same model of sniper rifle that Soap picked up, attaching various mods before slinging it over his back. He saddled his sidearm, before stocking up on grenades for the grenade launcher attachment, but also flashbangs and grenades. He nodded towards Soap, who was just finishing signing out his weapons. After signing out his own, they turned to exit, making their way towards the Helipad, and also towards Russia.

* * *

[Blackout]

[Day 2 – 1:31:24]

[Caucasus Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Echo pulled back on the gun he was holding- a M4A1 SOPMOD and flicked off the safety as he stood in a circle that the squad formed, just a few klicks away from where Nikolai was reportedly being kept. Captain Price took point as they trudged through the swamp, keeping low to avoid drawing any attention too soon. The last thing they wanted to do was to draw out attention which could risk the death of Nikolai.

"Loyalists, eh? Are those the good Russians or the bad Russians?"

Gaz murmured as they continued to trudge behind Price, and Soap before him. Price shrugged in response, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead of them, and not allowing him the luxury of eye contact.

"Well, they won't shoot us on sight, if that's what you're asking."

"That's always a good thing- a day where we don't get shot at."

"We don't get many of those"

Echo replied, nodding slowly in agreement as they approached a small bridge that joined two verges together. There were two Tangos on the small rickety bridge from what he could see at this angle, and both were clean shots. The squad immediately quietened upon Price's hand gesture to hold, all of them freezing still as he looked ahead.

"Weapons free."

Echo raised his gun, aiming the red dot sight over the head of Tango 1, and fired with a tiny squeeze of the trigger. With the silencer doing its job, the Tango on the left fell dead, roughly at the same time Price and Soap's combined bullets made their new home in Tango 2.

Gaz took out the Tango that Echo couldn't see, on the far left, biding by a Truck. It was lucky he did, because if he hadn't, the Tango would have noticed his two comrades falling dead. Price looked at the small building on the left, the light that was on peering out as they approached.

"Gaz, Echo, take the outpost building."

"Let's go, Newbie."

"Yes Sir,"

They split off from the rest of the group as they waited, watching ahead for any oncoming hostiles. They both silently walked up, before taking opposite sides of the door-frame. Retrieving a flashbang from his ever expansive pocket, he looked as Gaz nodded in approval.

"Flashbang out."

Pulling the pin, he threw it in. It bounced off the wall and round the corner, as both men turned away to make sure they didn't get blinded. Once it had gone off, with its telltale noise ringing out, they both went in. There were two Tangos in the building, each one covering their eyes and rubbing them furiously, as if that would make it better.

Without hesitating, he took out the one on the left with a simple hand over the mouth and knife through the back, while Gaz did the same with the Tango on the right. Once he was dead, Echo removed his hand from around the Tango's mouth, before lying him gently on the floor.

"Clear, Sir."

Gaz reported over the comm, as the two of them exited the small building, reuniting with the rest of the squad. Echo wasn't expecting any praise from Price considering he was a gruff man, and wasn't surprised when he didn't get any. He was a little surprised though, admittedly, when Soap nodded in approval, the quiet man actually praising them.

"Good work."

"There should be a few more guard posts up ahead. Kamarov and his men will be waiting for us in a field to the north-west."  
Nobody commented as Price took point again. Crossing under the bridge was an easy affair, clearing it without so much as hitting their heads. Not that they could have, unless they were absolute giants at eight foot tall. They dropped back down again as they approached a second outpost, the windows in the buildings glowing with a dull yellow light.

As they approached the now blacked out windows, Price pulled up his hands, getting them all to stack up outside the door-frame yet again. Echo tensed, breathing quietly as he waited for Price to give his next order. Supernatural person he may be, but even he could get nervous from time to time. Gunshots, even when you couldn't die, weren't the nicest thing, and you could trust him on that.

* * *

Author's Note

Thank you for reading, and here is chapter one!

~Cait


	4. Chapter 2 - Blackout

_Wars can be prevented just as surely as they can be provoked, and we who fail to prevent them, must share the guilt for the dead_

_Omar N. Bradley_

* * *

[Blackout]

[Day 2 - 2:04:28]

[Caucasus Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"Soap- plant some claymores in front of the door, then get their attention."

Soap silently moved out of their line, slowly but surely climbing up the stairs that could be creaky. One mistimed creak and stealth would rapidly become an unavailable option. Crouching right down so that he was balancing on his knees, Soap quickly pulled out a claymore, armed it, and curved around the door-frame, so that it was right inside of the room. Pulling away, Soap went down the opposite stairs this time, getting into another kneeling position, as he looked at Price, who gave him the silent go-ahead.

"Hey! Eejit!"

The faint cursing of the Tangos inside became audible as the two stormed out, one after another. As they all trained their respective weapons on the oncoming Tangos, one of them got into the range of the claymore, blowing up with a spectacular explosion. For such a little thing, they were powerful enough to blow a man's leg off. Soap then, with his gun pulled out, went into the room, firing a bullet point-blank, into the second Tango who had survived the initial explosion but was too injured to fight back.

Once they had swept the room, with Price taking point again, they walked up to the next house, with normal stairs this time, none of the creaky ones that were annoying. Price poked his head through the door, but upon seeing it empty, he walked through, until he got to the side door. With everyone gathering in the room, he carefully twisted the knob, pushing it open silently. Clear. Again.

They got up into a standing position as they began to cross the field, with mountains being their scenery as they crossed the tall grass. It would prove a good place to hide if worst came to worst, which Echo hoped it wouldn't.

"Gaz, you smell that?"

"Kamarov."

He answered resolutely. The bushes to the right of Price rustled, causing Echo and Soap to train their guns on them before Price held up the universal army gesture for 'hold fire.' The figure came out holding his gun up in the air, dressed in full army uniform as he turned to face the squad. The man spoke in a heavy Russian accent, waving his hand in the air as several more people emerged out of the grass. This must be Kamarov's squad if they came out in response to his signal.

"Welcome to New Russia, Captain Price."

"What's the target, Kamarov? We've got an informant to recover."

While they were taking, Echo reloaded his gun, whilst also stretching out a little bit. Being hunched over could be uncomfortable at the best of times. Soap stayed back with him as Gaz and Price began to talk to Kamarov, with Kamarov explaining the current situation.

"You arnae deein tae bad fur yer first mission Lad. Keep it up, an we'll mak a sudjer oot o' ye yet."

Soap's accent got stronger while talking to Echo, he noticed, but not that it was weakened before. If Echo had to guess, it was because Echo himself was Scottish- technically- so he felt more comfortable letting his accent out. There was no fear of being misunderstood because for Echo, Soap spoke fluent English, and the Scots was just as easy to understand. Regardless of whatever reason it was, as soon as someone else addressed him, any Scottish slang evaporated. Apart from the occasional 'Aye' or 'Nae', that is.

"Thank you, Sir."

Soap waved off the 'sir' as they walked up a hill with the Russian Loyalists, weapons shouldered.

"Just Soap. Call me Sir again and I'll shoot you up the arse."

Nodding, they broke into a light sprint as the hill turned into a rocky path, with a brick wall to their left. On their right was the village they were to find Nikolai in, with several, what looked to be, rockets, firing into the air. Price stopped at where there was a broken fence which overlooked the main entrance to the village, as he put his hands up to his comms.

"Gaz, Echo, cover the left flank."

"Roger."

They chorused, jogging down the trail and round the small corner, where there was another verge overlooking the village. They went prone, pulling out their M21's as they carefully rested it so it was straight. Looking through the scope, the village was quiet for the moment, but it was about to get loud once the Loyalists moved in.

"In position."

_Sniper team in position._

There was a silence over the comms as both Gaz and Echo shouldered their weapons, compensating for any recoil. They breathed lightly and quietly, keeping the guns steady as they watched over the village. Then loudly, as sudden as the crack of thunder, Kamarov's voice came out, with the village seemingly responding with its own uproar.

_All units, commence the attack._

Out of the corner of Echo's eye, he could make out two of Kamarov's sniper team prone on a bank to the right of Soap and Price. The others were out of his eyeshot, but he could see the volleys of fire and assumed that they were making their way into the outpost. He sniped indiscriminately at targets that were both marked and unmarked, always making sure that he did not shoot any friendlies. Friendly fire would not do him any favours.

Constant head-shots were within his ability, but that would be unrealistic and cover jeopardising. So he stuck to the occasional head-shot, being congratulated with a splatter of blood, and the more often and acceptable body shot, being greeted by either a stumbling figure or a falling one. It depended on how thick their armour was. It was quite difficult to feign being bad at something, you might find, especially when you had _a lot _of experience with said something.

Automatically, his instincts aimed for the head, automatically calculating the factors that would affect the shot, like wind speed, and determining the best angle. Fighting to ignore that instinct was _incredibly _difficult.

_Soap, take out the machine gunners in the windows so Kamarov's men can storm the building!_

Soap, from what Echo knew and could see, adjusted his fire as he ducked underneath a whizzing bullet that lodged itself into the brick wall behind him. It was one of the few times where he had been put on the left flank rather than the right, and it was a refreshing change of pace for Echo.

Repeating things could get boring, even if you knew you were dedicated to doing it forever. The rumble of the machine gunners died with their marksmen, as Echo reloaded and fired at a Tango attempting to get up next to Kamarov's snipers. The sound of rotor blades became evident to the Bravo Team, hearing the metal blades chop through the air, bringing no doubt, more Tangos for them to deal with.

"Sir, enemy helicopters incoming!"

Echo reported, reloading his rifle in preparation to take more shots as Kamarov's men pushed up through the village. There was a brief talk between Kamarov and Price as Price seemed to lecture Kamarov on something.

_Gaz, Echo, hold at your position. We're coming to you._

The two of them shared a brief look before Gaz responded to the order, with a simple 'Copy'. The both of them, while they waited for the others, continued to take shots at the Tangos, with Echo trying to make a risky shot that involved taking out the man at the top of the rope that the enemy helicopter was lowering. He couldn't see the results, just seeing the haze of blood in the far distance, as Gaz pulled his shoulder, nodding towards Price, Soap and Kamarov who was just approaching.

"On me."

The two of them, with Echo shouldering his rifle in favour of his M4A1 SOPMOD- what use was a Sniper at close range- jogged behind Price and Kamarov, taking a detour through a burning building. It was empty and deserted, like someone had just packed all their belongings and left, and Echo, despite himself, found it a bit melancholic and foreign.

This had been someone's house once. He fell into line at the back, following behind Gaz as they cut through into the room on the right, which was just as empty as the entrance room. Upon exiting the house, greeted by a wide-open door-frame, red with the embers of fire, Echo realised the whole house was just as empty. It was dismaying to say the least. They stormed out, guns aimed in preparation, as they were forced to slide into some cover behind some rocks, due to enemy tangos approaching down the hill, from the helicopter.

Popping out from cover, he returned fire to an enemy directly across the small clearing, who was cowering behind what looked to be a metal box. Squinting in the dusk, he saw the enemy fall, although whether he was dead or not was something he didn't know. An enemy much closer to them, by a cluster of rocks a few hundred metres away, yelled in pain as Price landed a particularly nasty shot to the centre of his chest. It was a fatal wound.

_Cover me!_

Price called out, as he jumped the cover and moved forward to where a Tango had just been occupying. Taking a grenade out, he removed the pin with a tug of his teeth, before throwing it as far as he could towards the groups of Tangos. Cries of 'Grenade!' rang out as they attempted to dodge the small explosion that resulted, by running out of cover.

Of course, that resulted in the three of them that did being rapidly shot down by Bravo Team, causing all of them to fall with various wounds. There were about two Tangos left, one of them falling sooner after to one of Price's shots. The other, perhaps seeing he was incredibly outnumbered, attempted to flee back up the hill.

It was too bad for him that Soap had his sniper out, and he was unceremoniously shot in the back, severely injuring him. They waited a few seconds before Price announced the 'Tango down' that they were all waiting for.

"Captain Price, my men have run into heavy resistance. Help me support them from the cliffs."  
It was easy to see that both Gaz and Price were getting incredibly annoyed by now, for lack of a better word. It wasn't their mission to help his troops, it was their mission to retrieve Nikolai from where he was being held in the village. For every second they spent clearing or sniping the village, Nikolai could be being killed, tortured, or something just as bad.

They had an argument while they sprinted up to the cliffs, another part of the fence being cut away in order to provide an adequate sniping spot. It was rare to see Price so angered, the man usually being, in all of the times Echo had known them, stoic yet calm. He did not wear his emotions on his sleeve, and it was clear to see that he was dedicated to Bravo Team, and the succeeding, Task Force 141.

"What about our informant? He's running out of time!"  
"Then help us! The further my men can get into this village, the closer we will be to securing your informant!"

Sighing they all went prone, a neat line of soldiers equipping sniper rifles. He pulled down his night-vision goggles from the top of his head, his darkened vision being replaced by a brighter, greener vision. Beams of light were noticeable from their snipers, as the others followed his lead, equipping their own googles.

Their enemies were lit up faster than Christmas lights, both in the literal sense and the military sense, as they began to fall from the hail of bullets. It didn't take them long to take out a significant chunk of the Tangos, giving Kamarov's men an opportunity to move forward.

"Good! Now we are making progress. Follow me to the power station."  
Echo could hear Gaz's teeth gritting as the man in question fought to keep his normally long, temper in. Still, Price nodded, and Bravo Team followed up to the said power station, with Echo reloading his sniper and pulling out his other weapon- after shouldering the sniper, of course. They were just touching on the concrete of the power station, with Gaz, Price and Kamarov gathering round the corner of the power station.

"Look. The final assault has already begun. With a little more of your sniper support we are sure to be victorious. Captain Price, I need to-"

Gaz, losing his rag on his temper- and receiving a subtle nod from Price that Echo knew the Captain would deny until the end of his days- stormed up to the intimidating Russian, and grabbed him by his shoulders and hung him dangerously over the edge of the concrete.

Even though the cap that was on the man's head was mostly obscuring Gaz's eyes, you could see the anger that was lingering behind them. Kamarov started spitting out furious Russian that Echo himself could understand as clear as day. On his record- the one that was held by the SAS- under his known languages it listed a few; Russian, German, Scottish Gaelic and French.

If they spoke any other language, he had to pretend he didn't know what they were saying. Russian though? He didn't have to pretend at all. Price, Echo knew, also knew what Kamarov was saying because the man was fluent in Russian and Arabic. Gaz was fluent in English only, and Soap was fluent in Scottish Gaelic, Cyrillic, and Russian. Languages, it turned out, were a fairly sought after thing in the SAS and the army in general.

"Enough sniping! Where is the informant?"

"Что ты делаешь? Что, с ума сошёл? Что себе позволяешь?" (What are you doing? Are you crazy? What do you think you're doing?)

Soap and Price, who was standing next to one another, stared impassively at the encounter, both men being equally frustrated at Kamarov's extensive use of their services. It was easy to see why because even Echo himself felt some anger towards him. He was essentially distracting them from their own mission to further his own one.

"Просто ответь на вопрос!" (Just answer the question!)

Echo snapped, somewhat genuinely. He didn't want to come off as uncaring, and it helped him get his anger out. If Kamarov was surprised by his Russian then he didn't let it show, being far too much of an experienced sergeant to let something so easily show on his face. Kamarov seemed determined to continue being quiet, so Gaz slammed him against the wall again, giving Kamarov a lot more patience then he deserved.

"Where is he?"

Echo refrained from adding on something in Russian, as Kamarov squirmed under Gaz's firm hold, trying to get out of it, but to no avail. Presumably seeing that Gaz wasn't about to let him go until he answered, he reluctantly gave up the location. Which was good, because there was no telling what Gaz would have done if he hadn't.

"The house... the house at the north-east end of village!"

"Well that wasn't so hard, was it? Now go sit in the corner."

He roughly pulled Kamarov back from the edge, letting him go and mockingly brushing off his uniform. Kamarov slunk back, collapsing against the back of the wall, as they all got prepared to rappel down from the power station and finally, enter the village.

"Soap, Gaz, Echo. We've _got_ to reach that house before anything happens to the informant. Let's go!"

Attaching himself to the rope, and double-checking that it was secure, he agilely climbed to the top of the wall, turning so his back was facing the village, and began to lower himself. He started off slowly walking a fair distance down, before making leaps and bounds, jumping large portions of the rocky surface.

Soap, Gaz and Price were mirroring his actions- or was he mirroring theirs?- and it didn't take them more than a minute until they were at the bottom, feet touching grass at the bottom. Cutting the rope quickly, he retrieved his M4A1 SOPMOD from his back, and waited for Price to take point, which he did. They stormed towards a small wall, leaping over it with grace as they carefully covered one another from any oncoming enemies that might have appeared suddenly.

"Bloody hell, let's move. He may still be alive."

And with that order, they stormed off to where they hoped- well, in Echo's case, knew- Nikolai was being held.

* * *

Author's Note

Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	5. Chapter 3 - Allies

_We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender ~ Winston Churchill_

* * *

[Blackout]

[Day 2 - 2:54:06]

[Caucasus Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

As Price, Soap and Gaz took positions covering behind the boxes and the wall, Echo moved towards the house on the right, with the door wide open. Bringing his rifle up, he took place by the wall, before peering through carefully. Two Tangos came through the door opposite but fell quickly to some well-placed bullets.

Moving further into the building, he swung his gun right, only to see that the right alcove was empty. Moving forwards through the linearly set outhouse, he made it to the adjacent door, making sure not to be in the clear range of a shot. Leaning behind the door frame, he fired a few more shots at the various Tangos who tried to cover behind the hay bales, which weren't the best for deflecting bullets. Why hide behind them when you could hide behind some thick metal?

_I'm moving up. Cover me!_

That was Gaz's command, and unable to get a better view on any Tangos, Echo moved and ducked behind a stack of three pipes, thick and sturdy. Bullets ricocheted off of it with numerous clangs and whistles, and once they had ceased, he moved over to the right and bobbed up, shooting at several Tangos and drawing their attention.

Two Tangos fell by his shots, suffering from both one unfortunate shot to the oesophagus and another suffering from a stomach wound. Three more fell from Soap and Gaz's shots, with Price moving up on the left flank.

"I'm going to clear the building ahead."

_Roger_.

Making sure he wasn't liable to any surprise shots, he moved towards the next building, throwing his third flashbang inside. While that was about to explode, he moved his gun to the left and fired at some of the others. Moving in, he quickly dispatched the two enemies in the centre of the house, before ducking to the side quickly as one fired blindly, one of the bullets catching him on the left of his ribs.

Putting his hand to it briefly, it came away with a small covering of wound. It wasn't a fatal wound, and while it was sore, the kevlar in his uniform managed to soften the blow somewhat. There wasn't a point in calling in that he'd been hit. It wasn't Echo's worst wound by far. The lack of super-healing was an annoying thing, but worse things had happened. Popping his head around the corner again, he took down the final Tango in the building, as the gunfire from outside mostly ceased.

He went out the back door, swinging his gun around as he caught sight of a man standing in the door. He very nearly squeezed the trigger before realising it was one of Kamarov's men. Gaz, Soap and Price came, cutting through the very same building he'd just cleared before they all stormed up the small hill, Price taking point.

They were all warily keeping an eye out for any oncoming Tangos, but all was silent- apart from those who were in the house. Reloading his clip in preparation, they approached the suspected location of Nikolai, quietly sneaking along in order not to give away their advantage.

"Gaz, cut the power. Echo, enter through the garage door and watch our backs. Soap, with me."

Nodding, Soap and Price moved to the front door, while Echo split away and moved for the left, quietly creeping onto the deck. Knowing it was going to be dark inside, he pulled down his night vision goggles, letting his eyes adjust for a moment as he waited patiently for the go-ahead. Although he had experienced many versions of this mission, it had mostly always gone well, apart from the few occasions where he himself had been shot while trying to protect Nikolai.

In this case, he'd managed to get himself shot before even getting to Nikolai, which Echo found slightly amusing. While the wound was still stinging a little, the blood had stopped seeping from it as it began to clot, slowly. There was no need to worry about the metal bullet, casing, or shard, and he'd clean it up once they were on the helicopter back, after they got Nikolai.

_Alright, go._

Placing his hand on the doorknob, he twisted it gently, slowly opening the door and stepping in silently. Pulling up his gun so that it was in front of him and in prime firing position, he crept through the house, checking what looked to be the kitchen for any hostiles. There were only one, which he crept up to easily, pulling out a knife and creeping up behind him.

Wrapping his hand around the Tangos mouth, he plunged the knife deep into his chest, killing him almost instantly. Lowering the body to the floor silently, he quickly checked it once again, only to come to the conclusion it was now clear. His graze screamed in protest in that way that wounds did when you were crouching around, but having long ago gotten used to such wounds, he persevered. It seemed none of Bravo Team noticed anything, much to Echo's thanks.

"This room is clear."

He met up with the others, slotting into line behind Soap as Price's laser sight cut moved swiftly around the area, checking for any enemies. Moving into the next room, there was a man waving a pistol in the area like he was drunk, and after confirming that it wasn't Nikolai, Soap killed him with a silenced shot to the head. Price made a series of hand gestures, causing Soap to take point as they went up the stairs.

Whilst there were none on Soap's right, there must have been one on the left because Soap gave several of his own hand gestures, basically telling them to hold. Soap executed the Tango fairly fast as they entered the room, with Price moving towards the balcony door, and stabbed the man who was attempting to enter silently. With him falling to the ground, aided by Price, they moved towards a closed door.

Stacking up, Price opened the door with a slight turn of the knob, with Soap standing behind him, killing the only man who barely had the chance to turn his head in response. They then moved to the final room, where one final Tango was waiting, but he was taken down by a throwing knife to the head, courtesy of Soap. As Soap retrieved his knife, Price made his way to the figure slumped on the floor, crouching down next to him.

"It's him."

Retrieving his knife from its sheath, Echo crouched behind Nikolai, before slicing his weak binds in half. Price offered his hand out to the man, who accepted it, and was pulled out. Gaz came over as Price supported Nikolai, who was a little unsteady on his feet. You would be unsteady if you had been tied up for so long.

"Nikolai, are you alright? Can you walk?"

The man nodded in determination, demonstrating his ability by shrugging out from underneath Price's support, and walking a couple of paces by himself. Echo scanned over the man silently, looking for any injuries that he could see. He found none, much to his thanks. Price passed Nikolai one of the dead Tangos' guns that he retrieved from the corridor. Nikolai picked it up, before reloading it and checking its condition, seemingly becoming satisfied.

"Yes, and I can still fight. Thank you for getting me out of here."

_Big Bird this is Bravo Six. We have the package. Meet us at LZ one. Over._

The helicopter replied to Price on what was no doubt a two-way radio before Price encouraged them to move. They broke into a light jog, going out of the building, back down the stairs, and round the back, where there was a pale looking fence. It was like the old fences that farmers used. Running through the gap, they then went to the right, into a large clearing, where the helicopter landed, waiting with open doors.

Since he arrived second, he and Price stopped and aimed their guns ahead of the helicopter, in case of any surprise enemies coming, but there weren't any. Soap jumped on, moving along through to the other seat on the far side, as did Nikolai, followed by Gaz. Then once it was clear that no enemies were coming and the others were safely on, Price ushered him on, which he did.

Price jumped on last, getting settled into the seat. Once Price was sat down, the helicopter rose into the air, returning to Hamburg Safehouse for further orders.

"Have the Americans already attacked Al-Asad?"

"No, their invasion begins in a few hours! Why?"

Price was watching Nikolai carefully, curious at the reference of the Yankie Mission. Why were Americans called Yanks anyway? It was a question that Echo had wondered many times, but had never had answered. It was just an odd term. Retrieving the first aid kit from where it was stored under the seat, he lifted his vest, revealing the nasty looking graze. There was a wipe in the first aid kit, which he gingerly swabbed his wound with, ignoring the stinging that accompanied it.

"The Americans are making a mistake. They will never take Al-Asad alive."

Nikolai's voice was resolute, set, and it seemed he knew there wasn't much the Americans could do- and they had very little time to warn them. Before Price could ask any further questions, Soap was looking at Echo with an odd look.

"You got hit Lad?"

There was no point denying it. The evidence was right there on his side, red and inflamed in all its glory. MacTavish wasn't stupid, and there was no way he could deny it to any of the others either. So, he nodded, shrugging as he continued to wipe it. It wasn't that bad of a wound.

"'Tis just a scratch. A graze wound."

Soap leaned over, taking over holding his vest up. Gaz prodded at the wound with his cold hands, and Echo played the part, hissing in what he hoped sounded like pain. It was sore, that bit wasn't feigned in the slightest, but it definitely wasn't to the extent where he would hiss over it. Echo had far too high of a pain tolerance to do that.

"Still shoulda told us Lad. Can't have you passing out from blood-loss in the middle of the field because you didnae tell us you were injured."

Once it was swabbed, Gaz reached over and pulled out a large plaster, the kind used for much larger wounds and much more serious wounds then a gunshot graze. He tried to protest the plaster, not wanting to use it for a wound that would be healed within a few days, but Echo was pinned down by glares from all of Bravo Team, _plus _Nikolai.

And the glares even managed to startle Echo a bit, so he bit his tongue and stopped fidgeting, allowing Gaz to strap up the wound with the plaster. Once he was plastered up to everyone's degree of expectation, he was finally allowed to roll his vest back down. Nikolai was looking at him with a weird look, before shaking his head.

"_Будь что будет:_ Any wound can be fatal if left long enough without care." (Be that as it may)

There was absolutely no point in arguing. So he nodded, bowed his head to his superiors slightly, and admitted his fault. He looked out the window, down at the blurry ground beneath them which was peaceful. It didn't look like a war-torn country from all the way up here.

"Sorry."

With them seemingly appeased, they turned back to Nikolai, who was looking displeased at the news of the impending American attack. He turned to look at them all, before explaining simply.

"Al-Asad is a coward. They will never take him alive."

* * *

[Hunted]

[Day 2 - 03:52:39]

[Western Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"You got anyone waiting for you back home?"

Soap asked as Echo continued to look out at the passing countryside. It was a _long _helicopter ride, which was even longer than usual because Echo was on edge for the.. well, he won't spoil it for you. He highly doubted it wouldn't happen. The question was ironic. If he were to be literal, no he didn't have anyone. No parents, guardians, or anyone to look up to or love.

The closest comparison would be Life and Death.. but they weren't parental in the slightest. He might as well be their slave. But in terms of his backstory.. well, James Gibben didn't have parents to go back to either. No lovers either- a simple and clean backstory, painfully alone.

But then again, he was used to that. He shook his head, moving his attention from the window and towards Soap.

"No- no quines awaitin' nor no family awaitin'."

Soap seemed to accept the answer, smoothly transitioning into a new conversation. They all seemed to want to learn more about him- Bravo Team that is, and it didn't really bother him. He knew his backstory in, out, backwards and forwards.

It was rather a cliché backstory all things considered: parents dead, no family to speak of, but it was something to get used to. He didn't have to feign a relationship with people he'd never seen before, and they didn't have to suffer when he inevitably 'died'. It was better for everyone.

"What spurred you into joining the SAS? I doubt it was all those adverts on TV."

The question was from Gaz this time, his London accent sticking out like a soft thumb when compared to the others. Echo had seen those adverts, and they _highly _glamorised the army in general. Free benefits this, make something out of your life that. They failed to mention the risk of death, gunfights, grenades, and PTSD which would come _with _all those so-called benefits.

"Those adverts really annoy mi. Bunch of wankers who designed them, miss oot on all the drawbacks. My Ma and Da- well, we lived in a little village called Lockerbie. Nice village, quiet and quaint. A good place to raise a kid. Or, it was, until the 21st of December 1988 happened."

Everyone in the plane was far too experienced to show their response to the name of Lockerbie. But Soap's eyebrows narrowed, and Price's eyes hadn't moved from his for the past ten seconds. He shrugged, little James Gibben would have only been five around then. But the memory, vivid and strong and _terrifying _was present in his mind like he had experienced it first-hand.

Life and Death thought that in order to act genuinely when it came to a bunch of falsified memories, he needed to have 'experience' living it, so he knew what it would feel like. Brushing away the memories gently, he went on to further explain his oh so tragic tale, before Nikolai cut in, sounding confused.

"What happened in 1988 in Lockerbie?"

They all turned to face him, and Echo opened is mouth to explain, but was rudely cut off by the missile lock alert. There wasn't much he could do here to prevent it, and since well, everybody but the two pilots survived, there wasn't much point in trying to avert it. Still, it was going to be one sore arse landing. Looking out of the side of the helicopter, there was the grey cylinder that was a Stinger missile, hurtling faster towards them then they could escape.

"What the bloody hell is that?! Incoming missile! Hang on!"

It hit just under where he was sitting, and almost immediately the chopper went into a death spiral, lurching Echo to the side despite his best attempts to hang on. As his wound smacked against the metal of the helicopter, the spinning proceeded to get faster, and with the speed came disorientation. It wasn't pleasant, trust him. He kept a tight grip on the chair as the ground got closer and closer, black smoke escaping in vicious plumes from the helicopter, as Bravo Team looking at one another with narrowed faces.

Then, the helicopter made a loud crashing sound, and the sound of cracking metal and shattering glass became audible. The helicopter chassis- or what remained of it- seemed to slide along the dirt for a little while, but Echo's grip on the metal that was his chair came loose when the entire chair unlodged, causing him to be violently sucked out of the chassis.

His body entered a violent roll, his side flaring with new pain before a _searing _surge of agony made itself known to him. Before he could take inventory of his injuries, or even try to stop himself from becoming a human tire as he rolled about, he blacked out- he had smacked his head roughly against a small sharp rock buried deep in the ground. That crash with his specific injuries would have killed a normal person- the head injury, at nothing else, but he was 'lucky to be alive'.

He'd just be in plenty of agony once he woke up- and that wouldn't be as soon as he liked, and he'd either have to hide an injury, feign that he didn't know what happened, or pretend to be unconscious for the rest of the mission, _which wasn't an option. No_ matter. That was an issue for an awake Guardian to solve.

* * *

Author's Note

I'm so tired, so I'll keep this short.

Guest, thank you for the review. I can see why it's not clear, and in case I forget to describe it further in the next couple of chapters- they are pre-written you see- the Guardian's objective is to keep everything running smoothly in the worlds, and they do this by intervening themselves. Life and Death's objectives however- well, they are completely different. That'll become clearer soon.

That might be a load of nonsense, which I will fix when I can- right now I need to sleep.

Thanks for reading!

~Cait


	6. Chapter 4 - Hellfire

_"Life doesn't get easier or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient."_

_― Steve Maraboli_

* * *

[Hunted]

[Day 2 – 04:32:43]

[Western Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"Shit!"

The first thing that James became aware of was a steadily increasing pain in his head. The loud voice grated his nerves, and didn't ease his head very much. There was something cold and wet, James realised, moving down his head, and irritating his eyelids as he reflexively tried not to get any in his eyes.

The second thing he became aware of was that the accent was distinctly London like, and unless he had been captured by the enemy- James thought there would be a lot more pain if that were so, although he was still in much pain- it sounded reminiscent of Gaz. Cold hands danced along what he thought was his side, and not only did the stark contrast in temperature irritate him to where he wanted to move, but there were piercing shards of pain in each one.

It was like someone had taken a hammer to his ribs, and had started to attempt to play them like someone would a xylophone.

"Echo? Come on kid, don't die on us now!"

James momentarily thought that it was someone else talking to him, and resisted the urge to ask where he was, and what his mission was. Life and Death wouldn't visit him while he was in a Universe.. and he was in a Universe, wasn't he?

There was more prodding of various different places, with the same- he assumed- cold hand being placed up to his neck, being held there for roughly a minute. James fought to open eyes, but he couldn't- they were heavy and almost literally glued together. The rough stinging was shortly accompanied with a relieved sigh before two other voices joined what he still assumed to be Gaz's.

"Thank God for that. Hold on Echo- we'll get you stabilised and to the extraction in no time."

When Price- it sounded like Price- said 'extraction', everything James was supposed to do came flooding back rather quickly. He fought even harder to wake up, to regain control of his body because he had to help them. He couldn't fail. Before he tried anything else, he focused on breathing, something he had to get control of. His body- his spirit- was currently doing that for him, and James knew that if he had been a normal human, he would have most definitely been dead.

_In._

_Out._

There was the sound of absent gunfire in the background, as he felt his body being lifted up, slowly. Someone's arm was wrapped around him, taking his body weight as they seemingly walked somewhere. It didn't take long before he was lowered again, accompanied by a brutal attack on his ribs yet again.

On a scale of 1 to 10- with 10 being the worst- of pain he had experienced over his millennia of existence, this would easily be a six. Everything felt like it was being constantly drilled at, and even his breaths were accompanied by the cracking and spiralling of his chest.

"Sorry Echo. Have tae put ye down."

_In_

_Out_

The gunfire picked up yet again, with the sound of returning fire echoing around James' head. Although, he should be back to going by Echo again. With his breathing seemingly back under his control, much like the soldiers of Bravo Team under Price's command, Echo worked on the next thing that he should do: which was taking inventory of his injuries.

He needed to know which ones were the most serious, which ones were likely to hinder him and the ones with the estimated longest recovery time. So, number one, the head injury that he had observed earlier. There was definitely blood- a high amount of it- and he would bet all of his experience on that it was what had caused Gaz to curse.

He'd also wager that the thing wrapped around his head, tight and irritating, was a piece of fabric that was supposed to be used as a tourniquet. Judging by the high amount of pain, and how it was both concentrated in one area and that the speed he hit it at, it was highly likely he had a fractured skull at the very least. That could, very easily, cause death. Next. He landed on his ribs, _hard_, and that it felt like there were tons of shards in there.

Broken or cracked ribs then. They could easily puncture his lungs, or cause harm to other places in the body. It was difficult to determine where else he was injured, but he possibly had a broken left arm. It ached and it was difficult to move it. With that done, he set to work on the third task, which was trying to wake up. Echo was picked up gently by Soap again, trying to move him forwards now that all the Tangos were dead. They were nearing it.

"Come on Echo. Who am I gaen tae talk tae if ye die on me?"

Definitely Soap. Nobody else had that Scottish accent. Gaz was London, and Price's was much milder then Gaz's, being more subtle in nature. Echo would almost certainly bet that Soap had strengthened his accent on purpose because he never spoke like that when he was with the others.

"That's one search party down. We gotta move before they realise one of their groups are missing. Soap, take Echo and follow behind me. Gaz, take point."

There was a series of 'Rogers' that he heard, along with other things. There was the sound of an explosion, and the sound of displaced rocks as people ran over them. Judging by the harsh jostling that he could feel, it was definitely them. Then, there were the sounds of either a helicopter or a plane, and it sounded like it was right over them.

The whole place was shaking, and Echo could feel the clumps of dust land on his face, which he unintentionally inhaled, causing him to cough violently. Of course, that led to irritating his lungs, which meant that he was wheezing badly by this point. He needed to get up- _awaken now_\- because he was putting everyone in danger because he was unconscious. Soap would be too busy looking after Echo to cover himself, and Gaz and Price couldn't cover all angles at once.

Nikolai was scouting ahead, before getting into a position to provide overwatch- something that Soap would likely be doing had he not been saddled with his uncooperative body. There was a brief moan that escaped his lips that he couldn't quite restrain, as rough hands covered his mouth, preventing him from breathing for a moment.

"Sorry Mate. Tangos above us."

It was whispered with what sounded like genuine remorse, which just further spurred Echo to try and wake up. He was conscious, but not, in a weird state of half-being, as his soul- or whatever it was that made him, him, or rather, him the Guardian- tried to fix itself back to the body. And until that was finished, he couldn't awaken. It was annoying, being able to experience everything but sight, and feel extremely useless at the same time. He was failing the mission, the way he was now.

_Hold. Tango searchlight. Wait for them to pass._

The hand was removed from his mouth as the dirt that seemed to be above him stopped falling down on him, and the distant rumble of tires faded away. They stayed like that for a minute, as a little light began to filter through his eyes before Gaz finally gave them the all-clear to move.

_Let's go._

The sound of crunching stone picked up again for a couple of hundred yards he'd estimate, before he was settled against something hard and cold, on top of something hard, cold, and jagged. It was likely to be stones or slate. Both things, equally uncomfortable to sit on. Echo fought to open his eyes and was beginning to pick up blurry shapes, which were both dancing across his vision and merging together in a haze of geometrical shapes.

It was like his eyes were looking through a kaleidoscope, and it was both jarring and disorientating. He couldn't help but remark that he could add a serious concussion to his list of injuries.

_Gaz, Soap, clear the building up ahead. I'll cover you and watch Echo. Nikolai, watch my six._

The presence in front of him disappeared, with the sounds of crunching stones becoming more and more silent as they faded away into the distance. With the blurred shapes and constantly moving objects, colours began to filter in at such a rate that he was getting a headache. Although, that could also just be the head injury talking, who was he to judge. Still, at least he had colours, which was more then he had fifteen minutes ago.

Pops of gunfire became easily audible as well as the high pitched screech of a flashbang, with Gaz calling back a clear. It must have been fairly empty, either that or they had just gone in with their knives. There certainly wasn't very much gunfire. Looking around, there was a blur of grey, along with what looked to be jagged cubes. Again, he assumed stones. He didn't get much time to truly analyse his surroundings, because someone crossed in front of him, wrapping Echo's only good arm around his neck.

Price. He was the only one who wore a Boonie hat and the only reason he could recognise it with his current lack of vision, was because Gaz's hat was a cap, and was a completely different shape. And Soap didn't wear a hat at all.

_Move up. Stay away from the windows, redirecting fire._

"Up we get Lad."

The movement paused, and with it, the pain caused him to groan before he stifled it quickly, whistling through gritted teeth. His eyes slowly began to focus, although it still looked like there were fireworks going off in the background. Price turned to face him, still crouched down behind the rock like it was a protective shield. To be fair, it was technically the only thing protecting them from a surprise hailstorm of bullets- like Gaz and Soap would ever let that happened.

"You awake Echo?"

He blinked his eyes, scrunching them shut, before opening them and focusing directly on Price, who had his pistol in his right hand. He took a deep, bone-rattling and lung burning breath, before experimentally taking another one. He couldn't nod, his current position making that impossible, so he bit out a hoarse and painful whisper.

"Yes.. Sir."

Nodding in approval, Price kept low, crawling across the stony path and into the small shack, hugging the inside wall as he shut the door behind him. He placed Echo beside a nice metal crate, protecting him from the window and from his behind. He was roughly in the middle of the room, but against the back wall. Even though his eyesight was blurry, it was increasing by the minute, and he had to do something to protect them.

Price was behind Echo, in his blind spot, fiddling with something, as Gaz and Soap didn't bother turning around, instead shooting outside at the swarming Tangos. He needed to help them, because he knew the consequences if he didn't, and he refused to be a liability.

He moved his remaining good arm, and practically slung it across his body, fiddling with his holster as he grabbed his trusty sidearm, his fingers slipped across the body of the gun. Biting his lip, and not noticing Price come up on his side, he finally grabbed it, but found himself unable to check it once handedly.

The gun was covered in blood- his blood, he amended- and for all he knew, it would jam the minute he went to fire it. Price knelt down next to him, grabbing his gun off him. The man expertly pulled out the mag, checked it- fully loaded since he hadn't used it since he'd restocked- and Price pulled back the top, in which it jammed.

Price put the gun in his own holster, swapping it out for his own M1911, cocking it in preparation. He placed it in Echo's hand, which shook uncertainly. Without his other hand to stable it, his shooting wasn't going to be worth a damn long-range, but close range? He'd do enough to kill them.

"You sure you're alright to shoot?"

Echo flashed what he hoped was a grin, before pointing the pistol at the door, his finger resting on the trigger and his gun at stomach height. His vision had definitely perked up some, but he could still feel the headache and the pain lingering in his body, being washed away somewhat by the adrenaline now coursing through his veins.

"Aye: just.. my shooting isn't the best at the minute."

Price just nodded, before returning covering fire to the Tangos outside. There were many things about his situation as a Guardian that he didn't understand. The necessity for pain. For the memories. Why the timelines got altered up in the first place. What his role was. While he was pondering, he almost completely missed Soap's weak joke, made as the man ducked behind the wall, reloading his M4A1.

"We willnae hold it against you."

Echo didn't reply, keeping his thoughts firmly far from his previous ones, and concentrating intently on the door. The gunfight lasted for what Echo thought was a long time but was in reality about ten minutes. All the Tangos were down, and Echo was somewhat relieved because he was beginning to crash. His tiredness was beginning to increase, and his injuries were taking their toll on his body.

It was a miracle he was even awake at all- but he had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and was going to see this through until the end. Throughout the whole gunfight, his eyes never wavered from the door, and with one clip he managed to take out several Tangos, although not all at once.

One fell to a shaky shot to the abdomen, with another shot that hit him in the eye to finish him. The second Tango was a little more difficult, wearing heavy-duty combat armour that his measly little pistol wouldn't penetrate easily. So, he got creative.

Picking up a grenade from his little pile on his left side- protected from the gunfire from his body- he picked one up and pulled the pin out with his teeth, spitting it out to his left side. He held it in his hand, cooking it until the very last couple of seconds, before channelling his inner softball skills and hurling it at the growing gap in the door. Just as the door swung shut, there was the telltale boom associated with a grenade, and he trained his pistol- or rather, Price's- back on the door, but it remained shut.

The final guy was even easier, because the others had eliminated the remaining Tangos, and the final enemy just walked through the door, where he was promptly taken down by several rounds of bullets from five different guns. Gaz jumped out of the now smashed windows, followed by Soap as they aimed their weapons around, sweeping the area.

_Clear._

Price crouched down, and Echo returned his pistol to him, still in a perfect condition. Price accepted it and placed it in its holster, before wrapping Echo's good arm around Price's shoulder, preparing to lift him up. He stopped before he got to the actual lifting apart, looking over Echo's pale face and drooping eyes. Echo would no doubt end up passing out, even if he stubbornly kept fighting it. His wounds were staunched mostly, but he was still bleeding from difficult areas to reach, which was refusing to clot.

"Can you walk?"

Gritting his teeth, he accepted Price's support as he got onto his feet. Pain surged through him with even more intensity, and Price hesitantly moved his arm away from Echo, although still lingering in case he gave out. Which, true to form, he did. His legs shook under his own body weight, and he buckled to the floor, fully prepared to hit the deck.

Thankfully, Price had quick reactions, and caught him, but had to grasp his broken arm to do so. His vision blacked out for a few minutes until he eventually came to in the middle of another field. His head was pounding heavily, as he realised he was in a cradle-like hold, rather then the series of other standard holds.

"Sleepin' beauty's awake."

He was just coherent enough to reply, although he was getting incredibly sick of this passing out. If Life and Death wanted some person to make sure every Universe kept going on track, why would they let him feel pain and form relationships? It didn't take a human to realise that it physically hurt him every time he was forced away from people he grew to like. Although he had gotten used to it by now it still hurt just as much, if not more, every time.

"'M no sleeping beauty."

The worse injury that the Guardian could sustain, in his personal opinion, was a serious bleeding wound that wouldn't clot. It sapped away at his strength like a leech and made him incapable of doing tasks that he could normally do easily. Such as shooting at oncoming Tangos.

Or walk. Walking was something that he could normally do. Looking up, he saw that he was back in Soap's arms, with Gaz and Price ahead. A powerful beam of light shot down from the sky, and squinting amongst his buggered vision, Echo could barely make out the outline of a helicopter in the dusky sky.

_Spotlight, hit the deck._

At least it wasn't quickly approaching, because Soap had managed to lay Echo down rather gently, despite all his injuries, before going prone himself. They all froze as the helicopter flew overhead, slowing down as it swept over them, causing Echo's breath to catch in his throat while they all froze, afraid to even make a small movement.

_Stay down._

It lingered over where he was lying prone, before it flew off, the sound of the beating rotor blades fading away like a nightmare into the distance.

_The heli's moving away. Let's go._

Soap picked Echo back up cradle style yet again as the man moved quickly amongst the grass, trying to catch up with Price and Gaz who was a few metres ahead. Nikolai was a few metres south-west of the two of them, and it was evident that Soap would be the one covering him. There was a small house that they were rapidly approaching the back garden filled with various tools that looked like they were for farming.

_Contact, six o'clock._

_Soap, stay back with Echo until we clear it. Nikolai, watch our backs, Gaz, take the left side._

Soap crouched down behind some cover, as Echo tried fiercely to clear his head. Again, he couldn't help but remark that had he been a normal person, he would have been dead at least three times over.

He just hoped the team didn't realise how serious his injuries were until he had managed to heal the more severe ones with what little emergency fast healing he had- because there was no way he could explain surviving a skull fracture. Sighing, and hissing in pain and displeasure, Echo sat slumped in Soap's arms, knowing there was nothing he could do in his current state. And that annoyed him.

* * *

Hello all!

I'm in a pretty sour mood at the minute, so because of that, I'm going to keep this short.

To put it simply, my Higher examinations have been cancelled, and I, along with a lot of people, are unhappy with this.

Anyway, have a good week!

~Cait


	7. Chapter 5 - Thrill

_We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender._

_~Winston Churchill_

* * *

[Hunted]

[Day 2 – 05:20:13]

[Western Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Paracetamol or even an ice pack would have been nice, but Echo wasn't expecting much in all honesty. Soap knew that when he realised that the man was stifling any noises of pain, trying to shoot when he couldn't even hold a pistol straight. Considering they were in the middle of an active war zone, whilst also attempting to shoot down Tangos, ice wasn't much of an important thing any more. He'd cope with it.

Soap made sure he was in front of Echo at all times, moving up and down into and out of cover, returning volleys of gunfire with a signature _pop pop pop._ It looked like Echo was trying to turn his head to try and see who Soap was exactly shooting, but Soap, behind cover, shook his head in a silent no. Soap knew that Echo couldn't even see who they were fighting, because he was too busy slumping against the cover. Soap could somewhat relate to the odd feeling that Echo was feeling, in which he was but also wasn't in control of his body.

And the reason he could assume that lack of control in his body was because his muscles kept spasming, and he couldn't keep his head up. The sign that he no longer had precise movements further proved that any movement he made was being tinged with both pain and sluggishness that Echo, as a seemingly active guy, no doubt hated.

"Echo! Sit still, lad!"

He hissed, still ducking behind cover. The man- he was just a young lad really- seemed to be muttering something under his breath about Bravo Team and being useful. As much as Soap wanted to check on him again for fevers or sprains- well, he definitely had something worse than a sprain, he couldn't do so under enemy fire.

"Gaz, we can hold them off! Get that basement door open now!"

Price called out, over the sounds of volleying gunfire. Soap switched to his Sniper after shouldering his M4A1. He could take out the Tangos further away, meaning there was less chance that they were going to be flanked later. All it took was one shot to kill, and Echo, his fellow Scotsman, looked halfway there already, with lidded eyes and blood staining his uniform, despite everyone's best bets to staunch all of his wounds.

Even underneath his hair, it was thick with Echo's blood, hiding any potential wounds that they hadn't gotten to. Judging by his dropping in and out of concentration, the blown eyes, and his lack of response to certain questions and orders, Soap would bet he had sustained a head injury at the very least. It was a miracle that he was even conscious in the first place.

Shaking his head, he shouldered his rifle and lined up a Tango in his cross-hairs. The wind was going in a north-eastern direction, so he moved his scope two notches to the right, and one up.

Lightly squeezing the trigger, the bullet fired, hitting an approaching Tango square in the chest, causing them to fall. He repeated the process a couple of times, trying to thin out the enemy while Gaz opened the basement door, and Echo's deteriorating condition becoming direr and direr. Just at the helo started to fire down at them with its machine gun, Gaz finally called out:

"It's open!"

"Soap get Echo and get down there! We'll cover you!"

Wasting no time, Soap picked Echo up, wincing as the man groaned yet again in response. Soap had never lost a man in any of his Squad's before- not by being left behind, he meant- and he certainly wasn't about to start now. He sprinted towards the open door, following behind Gaz, and was careful not to whack Echo's head off the top of the door.

Nikolai came storming down from behind him as Soap placed Echo on the wooden table that was in the small room, as Price slammed the doors shut, effectively sealing them within the basement, safe for now from shots.

* * *

[Hunted]

[Day 2 – 05:23:54]

[Western Russia]

[Cpt. John Price]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"Soap, take Gaz and scout ahead for an exit. Nikolai, do what you can for Echo. I'll barricade the door."

As the two men in question pulled their guns and moved ahead. Nikolai carefully examined the limp form of Echo, wondering where on earth he should start. He had basic medical training as most people did in this line of work, but he was definitely out of his depth. And with nothing but a basic first aid kit that Soap had nicked from somewhere, there wasn't much he could do. Seeing as the open wounds were mostly compressed for now, Nikolai moved to his left arm, which was definitely broken.

Fortunately, the first aid kit came with a bandage, although the positioning was a little awkward, considering the man was unconscious and unable to move. Price returned a few minutes later, eyes scanning over Echo- or rather James.

"How is the kid?"

Nikolai shrugged, knowing better than to lie to Price. He tied the bandage off and solved one of Echo's immediate problems, but his tumble from the helicopter had damaged quite a few important body parts, most of which Nikolai couldn't fix, both due to his current surroundings and lack of medical expertise.

"He needs urgent medical attention,_ боец, чем любой из вас." _(But he's a fighter.)

Price nodded slowly, looking over the newest member of Bravo Team. Echo wouldn't have become a part of Bravo Team if he wasn't good. Honestly, after Soap, Price hadn't wanted to accept another member. He already had a set of well-rounded people and had no need to add any more to his squad. Especially not another demolitions expert, because he already had one of those.

The thing was, James' file had caught his eye after Price had been sifting through the recruits. James' file had caught his eye due to a few things. Number one was his training records: he ranked high in his class for both sniping and advanced hacking, while excelling in all three of his listed specialisations. While it wasn't a bad record by any means, it wasn't exactly standing out. It was the other sections of his record that stood out to Price.

_Cares strongly about his squadmates, will not value one life above his own. Whilst recipient to orders, he has a selfless complex that could potentially cause issues and conflict with his CO. __He is quiet, unusually so, and his fellow cadets often murmur about how he has selective mutism, or make jokes at his expense. He has never risen to these __rumours, despite the fact that he has often heard them. James is open, in which if you ask him any question, he will answer it openly, even if the question has been deemed personal._

Ever since Price had been able to pick who joined his squad, he had a reputation for being picky. There were jokes all around Credenhill on 'qualities' that people believed Price actively sought for. They were almost all wrong, something that Price often found amusing. It hadn't even been the unusual call-sign that had done it, although that was quickly becoming a running theme.

Soap and now Echo? It seemed like it was only Gaz and himself with normal names at this point. Price was distracted from his reflections as he saw Nikolai looking at him with an edge of concern before the Russian busied himself around Echo.

"I know he is. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't."

Price hoped the kid pulled through. It would be such a tragic end to a good soldier if he didn't. And they'd already lost one new soldier- Price would not lose another, regardless of his skill or ability. Echo's record and behaviour were most definitely standing up to snuff.

Considering Echo had covered them even though he was injured, and almost definitely concussed, he was a good man. But it was early to tell, and Price knew better than to trust based on first glances and paper alone. The only way to gather it would be through his own observations.

'_Clear. They've all retreated for now.'_

Price looked over Echo once more, as Nikolai finished tying a scrunch of clothes against Echo's bleeding wounds, whilst also trying to keep the man as protected as possible. Nikolai pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Echo's neck, before looking over him appraisingly, the Russian sighing and rubbing his head.

"I've done all I can."

'_We're on our way up.'_

Nikolai moved, and Price assisted Nikolai with heaving the surprisingly light man in his arms, with Price taking point as Nikolai carried the bunched up Echo. His breathing was stable, strong even, despite his condition, but it was difficult to tell how much damage had been done until he woke up, which likely wasn't going to be for a while considering the blood loss.

If it kept up, it was highly likely that he was going to need a blood transfusion. Creeping up the stairs, he held his own rifle up, only to find it clear, just like Gaz and Soap had reported.

"Stay sharp."

He muttered as they proceeded to regroup and move through the surrounding houses, trying to get to the exfil in as fast of a pace as possible. They crowded around Nikolai, in sort of a protective shield because none of them wanted either man getting hit. They crept out from behind several houses, only for Soap to get jumped on by a massive ass German Shephard.

No wonder the Germans used them in the war if they grew that _huge. _Before Soap could even get his knife out of his hilt, Gaz shot the demented dog in the head with a couple of bullets, resulting in a bloody mist erupting, but an otherwise unharmed Soap. He inclined his head towards Gaz in thanks, muttering not so quietly: 'Dogs. I hate dogs.'

There was a quiet mumbling from where Nikolai was ducking, leaning over Echo as he fired at both the approaching Tangos and the rabid and feral German Shepherds that should have been put down a _long _time ago.

"_I think… quite cute."_

Though it was faint, the Scottish accent was evident, and since the only other Scot was preoccupied, and was loud, not quiet, it was safe to say that the voice had come from the injured Echo. Price didn't bother turning to face him, focus on ducking away from fire, much like the others were doing. Price had been wrong evidently because he wasn't anticipating Echo to wake out of his unconsciousness. At all. Regardless of how aware or not he was.

"Of course you would."

"They aren't nothing like the giant bastards in Beirut."

Once the enemies had thinned out somewhat, the sound of rotor-blades again echoed around the impromptu war zone, causing several heads to raise. The last thing they wanted to do was to be cut in half by some trigger happy goon in a helicopter. They had progressed a little further, the tall and imposing mountains becoming their surrounding scenery as they looked and tried to guess where the helicopter was looking.

"The helo is back!"

They waited with bated breath as it inched overhead, flashing its large searchlight around and attempting to find the small group of people. Soap reloaded his gun while they waited, risking a glance at Nikolai, who had the still limp Echo in his arms. Echo's eyes were still narrow, his skin still pale, and his pupils still dilated, but at least he was conscious again.

Price raised his hand, gesturing for them to move once again. The helicopter had passed without detecting them, and also without slicing one of them in half. They quickly moved down towards a little stream, with thick shrubbery on the right side of the stream, and a brick wall on the left side. It gave them plenty of places to hide should worst come to worst, and also allowed them to easily obscure Echo if they needed to.

The only downside was that there was not much cover, so if they got shot at, they'd essentially be sitting ducks. A few metres down the stream, a small brick bridge became noticeable, along with a kind of van sitting on top. The helicopter could barely be seen in the dark as it swung its light menacingly overhead, trying to find someone who wasn't hidden, but Bravo Team was too good for that.

'_Hold. Sentries on the bridge ahead.'_

The bright light that was the helicopter's spotlight started to illuminate the stream, so all of them began to hug the shrubbery as it embraced them. Twisted twigs tried to tear at exposed skin, and various flowers stuck to their uniforms. It swung past them like a pendulum, but they still hid, waiting for Price's go ahead.

'_Stay low, but let's go.'_

Sneaking through the grass wasn't easy. It wasn't overly long, so it didn't obscure them entirely, and the hay bales could only hide them for so long.

* * *

[Hunted]

[Day 2 – 05:32:47]

[Western Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

They managed to get about halfway across the field without being disturbed or seen, but all of that came crashing down as one lucky guard seemed to notice them, shouting out something in Russian. It was lucky that they had even gotten that far, considering they were having to carry an unconscious comrade, which tended to slow down movement.

The Russian yelled something that none of the Russian speaking operatives caught but judging by how they started to shoot at them soon after, it must have been something along the lines of 'They are here'.

'_We're compromised. Nikolai, get Echo into cover. Return fire! '_

Soap slid behind a hay bale, shouldering his rifle as he loaded the next mag. Soap retrieved a flashbang from his pocket, before briefly popping his head up from cover. There was a crowd of Tangos hovering behind a series of three hay-bales that were clumped together, and he needed them to move so that they could get an accurate shot on them.

Pulling the pin, he counted to three, before popping up during a lapse of gunfire, and throwing the flash as far as he could. It hurtled through the air, landing exactly where he wanted it to.

'_Flash out!'_

With a high pitched whistling sound, the contents within the flashbang ignited, resulting in a blinding white light. The enemies yelled out, screaming various unsavoury things in Russian, as they became easy pickings for the Bravo Team. In three bursts of gunfire, they fell, as Soap ducked back into cover, narrowly avoiding being shot.

'_Push forward!'_

Price called out. Stepping up, Soap scanned the area quickly, before eyeing another hay-bale to his right. His side was clear for the most part, but Gaz and Price were having increasing amounts of enemies gather on them. Soap broke out of cover in a burst of speed that would put his gym teacher to shame, and ducked behind another hay-bale, bringing his red dot sight to his eye.

Along the distance of the field, he could make out two tangos, who he needed to take out before they noticed he was there. Squeezing the trigger slightly, one fell to a quick head-shot, while the other turned quickly in response, his hands motioning to pull the trigger. But with the ease of a practised soldier, he fired first with several taps to the trigger and the Tango fell before he even had a chance to squeeze the trigger once.

Reloading, he switched to his Sniper, before going prone behind the hay-bale, setting his Sniper up on its little tripod. Looking through his scope, he first got eyes on Gaz and Price, via the Boonie hat that he was so familiar with. Shifting right by three notches, he saw one lone Tango being in the perfect position to be shot. The wind had changed to be going eastern this time, so he hovered over the Tangos head, and moved his Sniper three notches to the left.

With the wind being at a downwards angle, he moved his Sniper up two notches in order to compensate, before firing the shot. There was minimal noise due to the silencer, and the Tango fell into the dirt, bleeding from a direct chest wound that was lethal. Shifting again, he got eyes on two more Tangos, with them throwing a grenade over to where Price and Gaz was. Watching the two Tangos, who hadn't noticed his presence yet, he quickly adjusted his aim, realising time was of the essence.

_Grenade! I'll cover you!_

As Gaz quickly lobbed the grenade back over towards the Tangos, Soap fired the rifle. The first shot went wide due to the quick and sudden change of wind direction, but it startled them enough to get them to focus on him. Soap compensated yet again, firing just as they started to aim their rifles down at him. As a bullet struck one in the arm, causing him to drop his rifle, another fell to a series of bullets to his stomach, courtesy of Price.

Price and Gaz gathered around Nikolai as they pushed forwards, eventually making it to the end of the field with minimal injuries. Excluding Echo of course. Price, from what could be seen, was largely ungrazed, apart from a small tear in the arm of his uniform. Although that could just as much be wear and tear rather than actual injury. Gaz had a nasty looking cut on his cheek, not looking too deep as it dripped blood at a slow pace.

And Nikolai was uninjured apart from looking bruised from his previous treatment and favouring his left leg a little. Soap himself was pretty much uninjured, with only a graze on his shoulder and the bruise near his shin to be contended with. No blood of his had been spilt.

_Get to the Greenhouse!_

Soap took point, shouldering his rifle and holding out his M4A1, wary of his corners. There was nobody inside, but judging by the increase of sound, they were rapidly on their way, Plus there was still the helicopter to deal with. Nikolai came in next, resting Echo against a concrete wall, out of view from both doors. A pistol lay nestled on the ground in front of Echo, which he seemed to pick up with a slow and laboured movement.

Every breath sounded like agony, and it had an odd, almost whistling sound to it. Soap didn't want to consider what that meant. Gaz came in, flanked by Price, who took cover at the first doorway and guarded it warily. The sounds of angry Russian increased in speed and frequency, as they all looked to Price for their orders.

Soap instinctively ducked as the sound of a chopper roared overhead, making him startle slightly as he looked up for it. He didn't want to get struck down, especially not by helicopter.

"Soap, set up some claymores in the door-frame."

Nodding, he retrieved a few out of his gear, before getting to work. He lifted the legs out from their tucked position, and after carefully making sure it was clear, he moved slightly outside the door-frame, before stabbing the legs deep into the ground. Stepping back, he pivoted on his right foot, before repeating the process for the other door.

He put the rest of his claymores away as he set up position, looking at Nikolai who was holding an AK47. More enemies began to flood in, hiding behind whatever they could manage as they all took a position at doors and such. Price had the door they entered in, the man tucked to the side at an angle where he could see oncoming people, but they couldn't see him. Nikolai was watching the windows, as was Gaz, while Soap took the remaining door, staying well away from his claymores.

"Once we've thinned out the enemy ranks, we make a run for the barn. That will provide cover from the helo. Understand?"

"Rog'"

Gaz echoed, as Soap nodded and Nikolai replied in Russian. Upon everyone's firm approval and understanding- even a weak 'aye' from Echo- they began to clear the way to the barn. As bullets began to fly, the sound of metal against metal making contact with the main foundation of the greenhouse, Soap pulled out one of his few remaining grenades, before holding it out.

He yanked out the pin, before cooking it, right before the sweet spot where it would explode. Then, he hurled it out of the smashed window, landing just behind some cover. The screams he got were the sounds of a job well done. It didn't take them long to thin the enemy ranks, and Price looked around, before nodding ever so slightly.

"Go now!"

Making their way to the barn was fairly easy, and they managed to get there without being shot or injured. As Nikolai rested Echo down yet again, there were the distinct sounds of wood versus bullets, as hellfire rained down from above.

Wood dust began to float down onto them, as they covered the front entrance. Gaz had gone into the back to explore what weapons they had- because their weapons were beginning to run low, and it never hurt to have some backups, before he called out with a morbid sort of glee.

"There's Stingers here, Sir!"

Price's eyebrows rose ever so slightly before he turned to look at Soap. The Scot stretched a little in a moment of temporary reprieve, before his muscles coiled, ready to snap to attention. The hellfire began once again with more intensity, causing all of them to look up worriedly as though the ceiling was about to bow under the pressure.

"Soap. Take out the helo with the Stinger."

Nodding, he jogged towards where Gaz was waiting and picked up the large and heavy weapon, barely slinging its back end over his shoulder in an attempt to brace it. The first shot he got off was lucky in the sense he didn't need to get out into the open. He could just stand outside the door and fire it. But he was unlucky in the sense that the pilot had flares, which made his job fifteen times harder.

"Bloody hell"

Gaz cursed, as Soap tossed the used Stinger to the floor. Gaz slid him another one over the ground, which he picked up and got into position, bouncing on the balls of his feet in order to allow him to respond quickly. On Price's go, he ran out into the smoke cloud that Price had created, his NVG allowing him to see through it like it was clear air.

While he shuffled into the better position, the Stinger beeped, signifying it had locked on. With a steady hand and a firm grip, he fired, shouldering the recoil as it threatened to send him going arse over tit. The smoke began too clear as Soap retreated to the barn, pulling up his NVG, allowing him to see that the helicopter was falling in a death spiral reminiscent of theirs.

It took all of three seconds for it to fall, and then about ten seconds later there was an explosion that rocked the earth.

"Bloody nice shooting there, Soap!"

"Ta Gaz."

Price nodded, raising his hands in the gestures that they were required to know. In a move uncharacteristic of him, he actually did compliment Soap's shooting, even if he wasn't expecting one. Soap felt like a little kid again, being praised for doing a good deed. It was unnerving to say the least, but he didn't let it show.

"Good work Soap. On me- let's move."

* * *

Author's Note

Hi all!

I've left this until really late- 23:44 to be exact, so I'm going to keep this short because I'm exhausted.

A random fact- it is my seventeenth birthday this Saturday on the 28th. Fun stuff, I know.

Thank you all for the reviews and support for this story! I really appreciate it!

Stay safe, and have a good week!

~Cait


	8. Chapter 6 - Recovery

_'But there is suffering in life, and there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggles for your dreams than to be defeated without ever knowing what you're fighting for.'_

_~ Paulo Coelho_

* * *

[Recovery]

[Credenhill, UK]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

After several months- more like accurately, two weeks_\- _of bed rest, confined to the medical ward, Echo was finally allowed out and to his own room- under the strict orders of, to _take it easy. _While that phrase wasn't synonymous with Echo's personal dictionary, it was with Bravo Team as a whole. Regardless of where he went, whether it was to the shooting range, the library, his room, or one of the other places on base, there was always a member of Bravo Squad with him.

Soap had taken to meeting him at the shooting range, helping him 'perfect' his sniping skills. They'd stand there, kneel there, sit there, for a few hours, shooting at targets until his eyes went squint (metaphorically of course), before Soap said that he was hungry, where they would go to the cafeteria. The same could be said about the gym.

More often then not, Gaz would be the person to offer himself up for- and he quotes Gaz here- 'CQC practice'. Gaz said he just wanted to see how good Echo was in his chosen specialisation. Punches would be exchanged, comments- mostly by Gaz- would be traded, and it wasn't too often that the two would be seen sporting bruises. That wasn't exactly what meant when she said 'take it easy' and

Gaz got tore a new one by her when Echo had been forced to return to the medical ward to have a nasty cut- they'd been practising knife skills, and while the knife was blunt, it could still cause some surprising damage- cleaned up and stitched. Then there was the library. Evidently, Price had taken up _that _role, because he would 'coincidentally' be in the library doing paperwork, or reading, whenever Echo was in there.

Common novels that Price had been reading included 'Macbeth' (he would've thought it would have been the Scots reading those books, because y'know, a tyrannical Scottish king), 'Animal Farm' (another tyrannical plot, what on earth was Price's theme here?) and for a random addition, _The Crucible (_set in the Salem Witch Trials). The choice was peculiar, there was no doubt about it, but Echo knew better than to question Price.

That includes both in the field and out of it. Of course, that 'coincidence' resulted in conversations about the plots and characters, and well, then it was the 'I have paperwork to hand in' or 'recruits to see to' excuse. And Price would never accept Echo's offer of help. And finally, the only one of the bunch who he hadn't mentioned, Nikolai. With nowhere else to go, Nikolai had hung around, and just 'bumped' into Echo at the random-est times.

They had rapid-fire conversations in Russian, talking about random things as a consequence, and having debates in others. Then he tended to disappear as quickly as he came, under the guise of looking at the various helos that Credenhill had. As much as Echo appreciated the company, the almost constant babysitting was driving him stir crazy. Or as stir crazy as he could get. Echo was currently in one of his moments of free time, swimming laps in the swimming pool.

Of course, it wasn't _just _swimming. The weighted pack strapped onto his back, and the fully clothed nature of the swimming pretty much confirmed that. There wasn't much point in swimming if there was no challenge in it. And despite the peak condition of the body he was currently occupying, he still needed to do _something _in his inevitable downtime. And if that was swimming, then it was swimming. He'd thought he was doing good because none of his babysitters had come running yet.

It had been dashed though when there was the sound of pacing feet and the clip-clop of shoes walking across the tiles. Despite the size of Credenhill, the pool was surprisingly empty, although it was a cold day, so that could be why. There was a slight huff, not out of breath but just out of annoyance, and Echo did a turn in the water, bouncing off the wall and breaking the surface with a strong push, looking at where the sound was coming from.

It _was _one of his commanding officers, but it wasn't the ones he was expecting. No, it was MacMillan. The man in question was leaned back against the wall, heavily relaxed, and Echo restrained a huff, knowing full well it wouldn't go down well.

Not likely anyway. He wasn't familiar enough with MacMillan to get away with that kind of insubordination. MacMillan held up his hands in a peaceful gesture, showing that they were calloused from years of handling Sniper Rifles. Echo's own hands looked a little like that.

"Easy. I'm not here to babysit ya: just tae worn you that the 'hale of Bravo Team is looking for yae. But I thought I'd warn ye why they're sae protective. Y'see, they feel responsible for your injury- the last newbie they had- the one that predated Soap- died on his first mission. I cannae tell you much more, but it was seen that it was just a freak accident. And while they seem like they hae the emotions of a brick wall, they care more then thae admit."

Echo sighed, treading the water and pinching his nose. His ribs were beginning to burn with the strain of the pack, and as much as Echo knew he could push himself, re-breaking them was just as likely to make Bravo Team mother hen even more then they were already. He pushed himself out of the water, making sure not to put too much weight on his still recovering arm and sat on the wall, dipping his toes as MacMillan hummed, watching with a scrutinising eye.

The packs slipped off easily and he moved his toes around in the pool. He dried his bruised knee, not paying attention to MacMillan who was watching him with an appraising eye. Echo's body was pale, recovering from the bloodloss, and covered in splotchy red patches that were peeling and burning red. The third-degree burns and the scars that told a story without words.

"Looks like I'd better get moving."

He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist so that only his top half was visible. He inclined his head towards MacMillan as he made his way to the changing room, but not before MacMillan got his attention back with a calling of his name.

"I have somewhere ye kin go to avoid them lot- I'll wait fae ye to get changed."

* * *

Which was how Echo found himself in MacMillan's office. It was neatly organised, almost to a high degree, with everything having an assigned place and his desk looking like something out of a drill sergeant's orders. Alongside the right wall of the boxed room, there was a black sofa with a tartan blanket draped over the top. His desk was a light oak wood, with a computer on the desk.

The drawers and cabinets to the desk were fitted with a custom issue lock, as was the bookshelf and cabinets containing files with high-security clearance. After MacMillan gestured for him to sit down on the sofa, Echo retrieved a book out of his pack as MacMillan boiled a kettle that was resting at the back wall, on a counter-top where there was an oven, a mini-fridge, and a sink. Inside one of the counter-tops, it was revealed that there was tea bags, coffee pots, sugars and sweeteners.

"Y'want anything Lad?"

Echo thought about it for a second. He was rather parched after the swimming, and he definitely needed to drink more fluids. Stretching a little, he nodded to his superior officer, nudging his backpack to the side, and opening his book.

"Could I have a tea please, Sir?"

MacMillan nodded, dropping a tea bag into a mug that he'd pulled out of nowhere. As Echo began to read the first few lines of the novel, relishing in not having to run away from his squadron. Or at least, not at the minute. He'd have to disappear to his room eventually- and consequentially, reappear on the squad's radar.

"You don't have to call me 'Sir' when we arenae surrounded by other people. Price doesnae ca' me Sir, naer dis he call mi 'Cap'n' either. Naer dis Soap, or the others."

MacMillan stirred the tea as Echo nodded. He heeded the words but- well, he was literally programmed to obey orders and respect rank. Had Life or Death had a title besides the usual Mistress or Master, he would've used that. Calling MacMillan just MacMillan didn't sit right with him, and every part of his body was screaming at him to call MacMillan with the title he deserved. So, he did.

"I know Sir. Mi Ma always taeld me tae respect my superiors- ahn Captain Soap an' Sergeant Garrick an' Sergeant MacTavish have taeld me the same thing."

MacMillan rolled his eyes as he took the teabag out. He retrieved some milk from his fridge and pulled out the sugar, tossing what he wanted in his drink before turning to face Echo again. Sighing in exasperation, his accent seemed to become even more accentuated.

"I guess I cannae convince you otherwise. Dae you want any sugar or milk?"

"Black is fine for me, thank you Sir."

He moved away from the back and passed Echo his steaming hot tea, a dark brown colour. Echo placed his book spine down on the sofa cushion. He took a small drink from it before putting it down on the table that was next to the sofa. MacMillan sat down on his desk chair and began reading several sheets of paper, just as Echo concentrated on his novel.

* * *

They sat like that for a little while, after Echo cleaned the mugs and returned to the sofa, the clock ticking absently. There was a knock at the door, and MacMillan looked up at it, shuffling his paper.

"Permission to come in, Sir."

Soap. The Scottish accent was far too distinguishable for it not to be him. And while there were other Scottish people in Credenhill, nobody had quite an accent like Soap's. Echo sighed, knowing that he was going to have to face the music- and consequently, the mother-henning of Bravo Team. MacMillan cleared his throat, before making some rapid-fire gestures, which Echo caught out of his peripheral vision. _'__Cupboard. Big. Hide. ASAP.'_

Nodding, Echo silently grabbed his backpack with one arm and picked up his book after slinging it over his shoulder. He trod lightly over to the cupboard after making sure that there was no trace of him ever being there, and opening the large wooden door. There were shelves lining the walls filled with organised files, stationery, books and other things. In the middle, there was enough room for him to sit down cross-legged, closing the door.

"You may enter."

MacMillan called out, authoritatively. There were footsteps- three pairs if Echo could pick out his squad's footsteps accurately. It was subtle- but the distinction was definitely there. Echo kept his breathing dead calm, quiet and soft like his own footsteps, analysing the cupboard so that he didn't back into something or make a disrupting noise that would give away his position.

He was at the side of the door so that the light from MacMillan's office that crept underneath the main door wasn't blocked by his feat. The light footsteps came to a stop, and Echo craned his ears, listening out for the conversation at hand.

"What can I do for you fine gentlemen this dreary morning?"

MacMillan's distinct voice rang out, along with a shuffle of what would likely be paper and the clatter of a pen. There was a silent shifting of one set of feet as they sat down- evident by the creaking of the chairs- and the slight tension of the room- which Echo could sense even without sight.

Echo was trying to establish who was with Soap, through character and through what he knew alone. Soap was one, the accent gave it away, and Echo doubted that Price would be in the little group- because if he knew, then they wouldn't be after MacMillan, and while it wasn't odd for the two captains to interact with one another, it certainly would be if it was about Echo.

Which, judging by how cagey they had been and suffocating almost, it was definitely about him.

"We were just wondering if you had seen Echo around. We have a couple of situations that we'd like to run him through."

That was intriguing. And judging by their previous behaviour, Echo would bet a lot that the situations he was supposed to go through didn't exist at all. MacMillan shuffled his papers again before clearing his throat.

"I haven't seen him today."

MacMillan lied smoothly, no hint at all of his deceit. One had to be good at lying if they were part of the SAS, he supposed. Echo took a small breath in the midst of Soap talking so that it wouldn't be as noticeable. His leg was beginning to get a cramp, but he still kept himself cooped up, keeping well out of the way of the door.

"The last I saw of him was when he came here to get his medical papers signed- have you checked his room?"

There wasn't much else to tell what their expressions were saying, apart from the scratching of a pen, the sound neat and tidy- no doubt MacMillan's eloquent handwriting. There was another voice this time, the accent distinctly English, and not Scottish. Gaz then.

"We checked there first Mac. No sign."

It was difficult to read what exactly they were going to say or how they felt because he couldn't see their faces. Eyes were the gateway to the soul, but the face was the gateway to emotion. The slightest wrinkle of the lips or the tensing of the eyes would give away someone's true feelings. But with that cut off, Echo was left with voice inflexions and sound. It wasn't a particularly foolproof way to identify feelings for sure, but it wasn't the worst situation he'd been it.

For example, Gaz's voice was carefully neutral, but the word sign had the slightest higher pitch. A sign of worry. His accent also got stronger at the end, another sign of heightened emotion.

"That is odd."

MacMillan hummed, his voice still impressively neutral. He showed no hint of lying, so it would take a lot of deduction and guessing to get MacMillan to give away where Echo was- currently in his cupboard. Even Echo was struggling to find flaws in what he was saying, and Echo _knew _he was lying. There was a big show of silence, before MacMillan continued his sentence, almost as if he had come to a sudden conclusion.

"Have you tried the swimming pool? He mentioned to me earlier he wanted to build up his strength again."

The silence proved that they had not. Give someone enough of the truth, and they would take it as it was. And as it was, Echo _had _been in the swimming pool that day, with the intention of building his arm back up, but also avoiding their mother-henning.

"We'll go check now. Thank y'Mac."

Soap replied, and there was the telltale accent.

"No problem. Hope ye find him."

Echo could imagine the nodding of their heads, accompanying the shuffling of feet and the slight closing of the door. There was a two-minute wait before MacMillan finally gave him the all-clear.

"Y'might want to go tae yer room, Echo."

He nodded, slinging his back over his shoulder.

"Thank you Sir."

MacMillan nodded.

"Any time Echo. Let me know if they become worse."

Echo nodded again, opening the door and peering down the corridor. Once the coast was clear, he started to make his way to his room, hiding for as long as he could.

How long would it last?

* * *

Author's Note

Hey all. I hope you are all doing okay. It's a tough time for everyone at the minute, as I keep mentioning.

If you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here. Many of you might not take the offer- honestly, I hope you never need to- but if you need advice, whether it be on stories or otherwise, I offer it now.

That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's a little bit shorter than normal- I can't exactly remember what was going through my head when I wrote this, being written about three weeks ago, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

I wish you all the best,

~Cait


	9. Chapter 7 - Pre-Safehouse

_"__Trust the process. Your time is coming. Just do the work and the results will handle themselves." _

_~Tony Gaskins_

* * *

[Pre-Safehouse]

[Credenhill, UK]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

It took longer than Echo would have liked, but he was finally cleared for duty, his arms well on the mend and there being no long term trauma. Not that there would have been anyway. On the bright side, Bravo Team had been significantly less motherhenny, which meant that Echo could have some peace and quiet. Like now, how he found himself sitting in the kitchen barracks, with MacMillan and Soap, staring at a plate of haggis, neeps and tatties.

He had been momentarily surprised when, just a few days after his recovery and consequent sign-off for missions, he'd been called down to the kitchen. Still, like a good little soldier, he'd headed down, dressed in his casual-formal day to day clothes. MacMillan, much to Echo's surprise, had been bustling around the kitchen, as Soap laid out one of the many tables.

Evening meal had taken place a few hours ago, but Echo hadn't gone to it, because he wasn't hungry. The plan had been to just get a sandwich or something, but that had been immediately dashed. It smelt delicious though, so despite himself, he sat down instead of fleeing in the other direction.

"A celebration f'ye lad."

MacMillan commented, serving up something with his back to Echo. Soap came over and sat down adjacent to Echo, resting his elbow on the table. Echo stretched a little, looking at MacMillan from behind.

"Thank you. But you didnae have tae do that."

He replied, wincing a little at his accent rang out, more accentuated. MacMillan brought the dishes over, the large serving smelling heavenly to even Echo, and sat down. MacMillan shrugged.

"What dae ye mean? We've bin planning this fae a while- and we did promise tae invite y'tae the next one."

And his name was Robbie Burns. He had no doubt that this had been arranged for a specific reason, but for what he wasn't sure. Supernatural being he may be, but he wasn't psychic- not at this current moment in time anyway.

So he was left with his wit and intuition to figure out why. So, he played the role of a recovering officer, still afflicted with a little pain- not a lie, he could still feel his arm ache and the headaches greeting him every other morning-and thanked them, tucking in with his still-sore arm.

"Well, thank you."

He smiled, speaking quietly. He took a forkful of the haggis and swallowed it. It had been seasoned and cooked particularly well, bringing memories back from a long time past, from another Universe with another Soap and MacMillan. One's cooking skills didn't come up particularly often in this kind of universe, but when they did, they were usually worth tasting.

"Price seems to think that we'll have a mission soon."

Soap mentioned, off-hand, after swallowing his bite of haggis. Echo hummed noncommittally, taking a forkful of his portion and chewing it. He laid his fork down on the plate as he took a sip of water, watching Soap with dark brown eyes.

"Nikolai looks like he's set to help. He's just getting sworn in and briefed. He's going to Hamburg to try and get us more information."

Soap explained. Echo nodded, taking another bite of his supper. He rotated his right wrist in a fidgeting manoeuvre, before returning to eat, watching observingly. They looked at him, before MacMillan cleared his throat, taking a sip of water.

"So what do you think of Bravo Team?"

Why, wasn't that a curious question.

* * *

["Operation: Safehouse"]

[Day 24 – 02:00:34]

[Credenhill, UK]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"We're heading to Azerbaijan."

Price paced the front of the room, hands behind his back, Nikolai appearing on the screen in a dusky Germany. A side screen shifted to show a map of Azerbaijan, along with a red dot. Next to the map, a picture of Al-Asad came up, along with a set of coordinates that lead to somewhere in Northern Azerbaijan.

"Al-Asad is a coward- too afraid to sacrifice himself. That would never happen."

Nikolai was confident with what he was saying, and it became apparent to Echo that he was good at analysing people. Still, the information provided further backed up what Echo knew about the man from previous trials of this mission in past times. Cowardly, used other people to do things for him. Will not be martyred for the cause he 'cared for' so much.

"I have learnt of a safehouse in Northern Azerbaijan that he has used before. Here are the coordinates."

Price nodded, stretching... Price looked over at his assembled squad, as Echo watched quietly. The coordinates quickly disappeared as pictures of their registration files came up on the screen, the men in the pictures being entirely different from the ones in the room with him. Even the James Gibben in the photo was one that he didn't remember.

The face youthful and innocent, muscles not yet lean, body untainted by all of the scars that he was now. Soap in the picture had a stern look on his face, but also a slight grin, subtle as if he was afraid to show it. The cut that went under his eye wasn't there, and there was a youthful light to the eyes.

"Soap, I want you on sniper support. You will be flanked by Echo, who will be your backup. Gaz, you're with me. We're going to breach the building where we suspect Al-Asad is hiding. Soap, Echo, when we're in position, I want you to cover the back entrance. Nikolai, you're our exfil."

Echo nodded as a chorus of understoods came from the group. There was a faint grin coming from Price before it was wiped away.

"Wheels up at dawn. Get some sleep."

* * *

["Operation: Safehouse"]

[Day 24 – 07:30:34]

[Northern Azerbaijan]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Soap led the way, surrounded with shadow, as they silently moved over to the hill which overlooked the complex. The hot air made the ground cracked and hard, and their steps silent and measured. Their snipers were on their back, and in their hands there were silenced pistols, only to be used if they came across some of their enemies. Which they hadn't so far. Echo's eyes were flickering all over as he flanked Soap, keeping his eyes never trained on one point in particular.

Soap would have thought that Echo would have been a little warier, considering it was his first mission back on the field after the clusterfuck that was the previous op, but he seemed just the same as before. There were no nervous tremors, no slight twitch or hesitation every time he pulled the trigger, and no jumpy behaviour. Everyone, and Soap meant _everyone_, had some sort of tell. But Echo didn't. That usually meant that either he was holding something back, compartmentalising, or there was something seriously wrong.

And for the life of him, Soap couldn't tell what. So, he kept a wary eye on his squad-mate and moved to get into position, the dusty camo of their outfit keeping them carefully hidden, just as much as the shadows were. They jogged up the hill after scoping out the surroundings, and as Echo covered their backs, Soap quickly got the snipers set up, their tripods taking the brunt of the weight and making them stable.

"Get down lad. Get Price and Gaz in your scope."

Echo nodded, lowering himself down into a laying down position. As Echo put his eyes to the scope, Soap did the same, scanning the horizons.

"Spotted. Two o'clock, right side, the bushes by the side of the complex."

Soap nodded, moving his scope to the indicated area. He had to give it to Echo, the lad had a good eye. Gaz and Price were hidden in the underbrush of the trees, their guns pointed up, crouched down and watching their surroundings like tigers ready to pounce.

_"__We've got you sighted."_

He reported, watching as Price's figure shifted slightly, turning to Gaz as they kept down.

_'__Received. Take out the man manning the spotlight closest to our position.'_

_"__Copy."_

He replied. He shifted his scope as Echo did the same, as Soap noticed that someone was climbing the ladder to get to the top of the spotlight. He kept his scope trained on the man climbing the ladder, as Echo automatically shifted beside him to fix his sight on the other guy.

"On my mark, you take the Tango on the right. I'll take left."

He murmured to Echo. He nodded with a stiff head, keeping his rifle trained on his assigned Tango. Soap took a breath as they waited with tensed forms, and he kept an eye on the wind and its direction. It was by pure luck that they were here on a calm day, where the wind was but a mere lull. As the figures got together, he rested his finger on the trigger, ready to pull it.

"Mark."

Was all he said as he let the bullet fly, noticing Echo mimic his movements to the letter. They watched with trepidation as the bullets made their mark, a chest shot and neck shot respectively from both men. Straight over the heart and straight through the jugular- instant death, and the neck shot would mute the second man, meaning their position would be safe. The light still shone, ever so slightly knocked off course by the falling of Echo's Tango, but as they readjusted their aim, Soap reported back.

_"__Tangos down."_

They watched as the two men proceeded to breach the compound, entering with silence. They soon went beyond the view of the two of them for a brief second, before reappearing alongside the wall.

_"__Hold."_

Echo quietly said, adjusting his rifle.

_"__Three tangos, approaching you head-on at twelve o'clock, half a click. Your call."_

Sure enough, when Soap adjusted his rifle yet again, he could see the three men in question. He nodded in approval to the lad as he fixed his rifle again. Now that the three weren't covered by the cobbled buildings, they were like sitting ducks.

_'__Prepare to fire upon the third man. On my go.'_

Echo looked at Soap in question. _His shot or my shot?_ Soap looked at it and weighed the difficulty. It wasn't a hard shot- and Soap could make up if the lad missed. Settling on that, he nodded.

"He's yours."

Echo settled back down as Soap watched his posture. There was something odd about it. The posture was almost perfect, despite a few areas that could be improved, and while Soap knew that Echo had been handpicked and trained by MacMillan, the way he held his rifle was different. _It's like he had years of experience._ It wasn't the posture of a young man who was, by all means, newish to the squad, but one of a hardened veteran who had years to improve it and work upon it.

So while Soap knew Echo was trustworthy because there was no way MacMillan would let him be if he wasn't cocher, there was still something odd about him that Soap would give his arm to know. He focused as Echo lined up the shot, and he lined up his own, a headshot, ready to fire if Echo would miss. But Soap didn't think he would miss- Echo was known for making the most difficult shots, as was detailed on his training record.

_'__Hold.'_

Price reported as the figures got closer, each man brandishing a knife. They lunged forward at the same time Price called out.

_'__Now.'_

Echo, without hesitation or doubt, pulled the trigger. Soap watched as the bullet embedded itself in the target's head, as the other two fell dead to no doubt stab wounds.

_'__Good shot. Kill confirmed.'_

_The two figures pulled the three limp bodies around the corner and out of view. They appeared by the corner again, peering around and keeping close together. They watched as they made their way to the first building, stacking up outside the door._

_'__Move to position.'_

Price reported. Soap quickly jumped up, taking down the tripod and slinging his rifle over his back as Echo did the same, watching hesitantly for Soap's orders. They were across so they needed to get around the back, skirting the walls of the compound and setting up shop on the rear hill.

"Let's go."

He said to Echo, moving down the hill with the dark sky as his camouflage. Soap didn't have to look to know that Echo was following behind him, pistol similarly outstretched. They got down to the stone wall of the encampment with no issues at all, and they hugged it tightly, never straying far. All they had to watch out for was the perimeter patrols, one of which was on the southside of the complex, and the other facing away from them on the north side.

Soap had taken this into account when arranging their first sniper position. As they crept along, fists clenched around their guns, and their night vision lighting the world in a hazy green, they came across the perimeter patrol. Soap gave the signal to slow up and Echo silently came to his side, watching with anticipation for whatever order Soap would give.

"On three, fire at the two tangos on your left."

He whispered like the breeze was carrying what he was saying. There was a silent nod from Echo to signal that he understood, and Soap raised his pistol, his aim never wavering. Lessons from MacMillan raced through his mind as he channelled them, and he slowly raised the pistol up to the head, execution-style. He raised his hand up to start the countdown.

_1…_ He had to work with the gun's recoil, not against it. _2…_ You look after your own. You never leave someone to the wolves if you can help it. _3… _Fire. He pulled the trigger before swivelling on the second Tango, the bullet embedding itself in the back of his head. As his own two targets fell, Echo's own fell suit.

"Good kill. Drag them in the bushes."

He moved forward and grabbed the two by the lapel, gently dragging them into the thick bushes where they would hopefully remain undiscovered for a while. Once they were hidden and any trace of them gone, they continued on without much event to the hill, where they quickly climbed up it and got into position. It took all of five minutes. Once they were ready, they reported back in.

_"__In position. You are clear to breach. We have the back entrance covered."_

_'__Copy.'_

Soap kept his sights trained on the main back-entrance, as Echo covered the balcony, in case anyone tried to get down that way. They waited with extreme patience as Price and Gaz swept the building, and aside from the quietest thump in existence, there was no sign that anybody who shouldn't have been, was in there.

_'__Clear. Target not here. Moving onto the next building.'_

Soap rested on his knees as he angled his sniper further so that he could see the rest of the complex. As he crouched back down, he noticed Echo doing the same, making minor adjustments to his encampment. As they watched, Gaz and Price crept from the back of the building and moved towards the next building, a few metres away. The complex was small, and as such, all the buildings were in close contact with one another.

It was a good place to hide, but also a bad place to hide. It was remote and small, so nobody would bat an eyelid if they happened to come across it. It was bad because there were few people to defend it if need be, and it was easy enough to find who you were looking for.

The rough hills surrounding the complex made it difficult for them to get sneak attacked as it was easy to see who was coming, and it was highly defensible. The downside to this was, as Soap and Echo proved, there was plenty of room for snipers and an even easier time for helos, as it was easy for them to fly over the hills.

The grass that surrounded the complex made it easier for those already in to sneak through, meaning that while the open space was an advantage to defence, the thick grass easily obscured anyone who crouched down in it. As Gaz and Price moved onto the next buildings, Soap stilled, his eyes never wavering from his squad-mates. He was tenser then he would like, because while squad-mates getting hurt were part of the job, it didn't mean he had to like it.

He looked at Echo, who had come so close to death. He thought of Spire, the previous recruit. While different in behaviour, they were still similarities- followed orders to the letter, were skilled at their role. If Soap had anything to say about it,_ Bravo Squad would not lose another rookie. Not on his watch._

* * *

Author's Note

I hope you all are doing okay!

~Cait


	10. Chapter 8 - Is A Safehouse Ever Safe?

_'It's the things that you least expect that hit you the hardest.'_

_~Unknown_

* * *

["Operation: Safehouse"]

[Day 24 – 08:26:52]

[Northern Azerbaijan]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

The glances that Soap had been giving Echo throughout the mission had not gone unnoticed by the man in question. It was about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the back of the head, which is to say, not very. Still, Echo was well aware that he was never going to get an answer, so he didn't push it. It wasn't like he could say to the man:

_'I am increasingly good at guessing your thoughts since I have been through this scenario many many times, and am a good judge of character.'_

He watched as Price and Gaz scoped out yet another building, the second to last one. By this point, you might think the compound would be practically empty, considering they'd cleared four other houses before this, but there were a surprising amount of people stationed there.

Echo raised his sniper to face the two windows, noticing that there were two people peering outside the windows, guns raised as if they were about to shoot. For a minute, he had a momentary feeling of panic, thinking that they could be seen from their position on the hill, but they both turned away for a moment as Price called out that they had breached.

_'Two hostiles at the windows. What are your orders?'_

Soap whispered, adjusting his aim at the window on the left. Since Soap was doing that, Echo took aim at the window on the right, aiming for the chest area, forcing himself to ignore the instincts that were telling him how to perfectly shoot. He really couldn't understand the necessity for these instincts if he couldn't follow them without looking suspicious.

_'Take the shot.'_

Was the answer over the comms and both of them readied their rifles.

"On my go."

Soap readied his rifle as a cue. Echo did the same, making a few further adjustments like calibrating for the wind and surprise movement. Soap took a steadying breath as Echo also did the same, and he waited for the 'go' command like a good little soldier.

"Fire."

He squeezed the trigger lightly, the pressure starting the chain reaction which launched the bullet that would end his target's life. As if in synchrony, the two targets which they had taken fire at fell, just as Gaz and Price stormed the building. In a few minutes, the building was deserted and empty- apart from the dead bodies, of course. The entire operation had taken precious few hours, and now they had the final building.

_'Meet us at the final building.'_

Price reported.

_'Copy'_

Soap breathed, making a few rapid-fire hand gestures that Echo barely followed. Between the low light and the swift nature of them, it was difficult to follow, even for Echo. Still, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he followed behind, pistol outstretched. Echo could allow himself to relax a little bit- because he knew that there would be no deaths accompanying this mission.

But, as was his nature, he couldn't completely relax, because there was always the chance that something would catch him unawares. And it was up to him to make sure he _didn't_ get caught unaware.

* * *

_'Are you two in position?'_

_"Affirmative."_

Echo reported back, his M21 in his hands as he hid around the door frame, waiting, tensed, to sneak in on the word. Soap was at the other side of the door, watching him with a measured gaze. Though it made him somewhat uncomfortable, knowing that his every move was being watched, he ignored it in favour of getting the mission done.

_'Enter.'_

The simple word that would start off this final segment. Echo, at Soap's nod, twisted and kicked the door down with a loud splintering noise, Soap throwing a flashbang out in response. They took cover behind the door again as it exploded with its harsh white light, before entering and beginning to sweep.

A hostile lit up like a firework in his night-vision goggles, and he swung around to aim, his gun an extension of his body by this point. With a few short bursts, the figure fell to the floor. Behind him, Soap similarly took down another target with skilled ease.

_'We're breaching the stairs. Stack up. Remember we want Al-Asad alive.'_

It was Gaz's London accent that came out over the comms this time, and Soap and Echo fell into step behind them. Price took the front of the stairs, leaving Echo to cover the back. It was about as much as he expected really. With more of those hand gestures, they breached the room, and in a matter of minutes, Al-Asad was tied to a chair, and those left in the room were dead or dying,

Thick rope secured him to the chair, and there was a gag around his mouth. They set up into an arc-like shape around him, and Echo watched, fixing a menacing look on his face. Price turned to face them, before nodding towards Gaz. The man in question stepped forwards, and slapped Al-Asad around the face, stirring him with a groan. Gaz stepped back into place, and Price snarled, his voice a vicious growl.

Even Echo himself was intimidated, but he made sure not to show it. There was a reason that Price was the captain, and it wasn't because he was constantly sunshine and rainbows.

_"Why'd you do it?! Where did you get the bomb?"_

He growled, staring the man down. Al-Asad glanced at all of them quickly but kept quiet, which didn't go down well with Price. He swung a fist and struck him right across the face. Al-Asad's face snapped to the side, and he spat at Echo's feet, perhaps in a show of faux confidence. It didn't bother Echo much, but evidently annoyed Price to some degree.

"Echo. Fire a shot into his foot."

Nodding, he pulled his pistol out and fired the shot right in the ankle bone, eliciting a hiss of pain from the man. Price held out his hand for the pistol, so Echo flicked the safety on and offered it to Price handle first. He took it and pressed the hot barrel to Al-Asad's cheek, resulting in the sickening smell of burning flesh.

" !لا استطيع ان اقول لك" (I can't tell you!)

He could tell that this wasn't just the fact of the bomb that irked Price. It was the fact that several thousand soldiers had died in the resultant explosion. And that fact drove the other men in the room as well- even Echo himself. There were few things that Echo- or rather, the Guardian- couldn't abide, and one of that was large scale loss of life.

Sometimes, it could not be prevented, and the Guardian wasn't naive enough to think that it could be stopped, but it still left a distasteful feeling in his mouth. Echo grit his teeth to try and imply the fact that he was trying to hide a flinch. Someone who had never witnessed another person getting tortured before would undoubtedly flinch somewhat. Gaz caught his feign out of the corner of his eyes, and watched him with a slightly worried look.

Echo diverted his attention to Al-Asad, as if he was trying to hide his imaginary discomfort.

"!لا تجعلني أسأل مرة أخرى." (Don't make me ask again!)

Price growled in fluent Arabic. Echo pretended to not understand what Price was said, and instead bore into Al-Asad with hardened brown eyes. In his eyes, a clear threat was swimming, silently warning Al-Asad to watch his step. Price punched Al-Asad twice more, each punch harder then the last until the punch to the face broke Al-Asad's nose with an almighty crunch, blood running down like water.

" !لا استطيع ان اقول لك" (I can't tell you!)

He repeated, struggling at the bindings. Price seemed to take him at face value, because he moved onto another question this time, moving to the side and pacing intimidatingly in front of the man. Echo watched as he was passed back his pistol, which he immediately returned to its holster, making sure the safety was on.

"Who then. Tell me who."

Al-Asad shook his head furiously, squirming.

"I can't!"

He said in heavily accented English, shaking his furiously, worry in his eyes. If Echo hadn't known previously how much of a coward Al-Asad beforehand, he would have definitely known by now.

The willingness to give away vital information for the sake of his own life, his eagerness to cooperate once he realised that they would definitely kill him if he didn't. A coward. Through and through.

"Give me a name."

Price quietly murmured, eyes glinting dangerously, and his pistol gleaming ominously in its holster. The faint voice made it even more intimidating then the words would have been had he yelled it, and if Al-Asad hadn't realised how deadly serious Price was being before, he definitely knew it by now.

Right on cue, a mobile phone rang from somewhere, as Gaz moved forwards, quickly searching Al-Asad. There was a risk that the mobile could detonate a bomb remotely after all. Gaz moved away with it in his hands, before offering it to Price.

"It's his mobile, Sir."

He passed it to Price, who caught it and flipped the top open, placing it to his ear. Soap moved towards Al-Asad and raised his gag over his mouth, as the man in question went through fifty shades of the face known as the _'I am in deep shit'_ face. The silence was chilling as Price's face slipped, a deep scowl forming on his face as he listened to the phone call.

The three other men were looking at one another as Price's hand clenched around the phone, a menacing growl brimming through his lips. Soap was not the only one who gulped, let's put it that way. Price threw the phone on the ground, trampled on it, before shooting Al-Asad in the head, making everyone jump in surprise.

"Who was that, Sir?"

Gaz asked, somewhat timidly.

"Zakhaev. Imran Zakhaev."

Echo feigned confusion. Well. It was partial confusion. He knew exactly _who _Zakhaev was, but _not _what had he done. Besides the bomb, of course, that much was a given. With a tilt of his head, the charade was genuine.

"Who, Sir?"

He asked. Price turned on his heel.

"Follow me to extraction. I'll tell you on the way."

And so. Bravo Team fell into stride, rifles raised, their route to the evac relatively clear. And so Price told his story.

* * *

[15 Years Ago]

["All Ghillied Up"]

[Chernobyl, Pripyat, Ukraine]

[Lt. John Price]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

_I was less Captain Price, and more Leftenant Price back then: doing a bit of wetwork. Chernobyl was an all you could eat buffet for the bad guys- they could take as much nuclear material as they needed, relatively easily, without fear of running out. A lot of people used it because of that- even decades after the actual event._

_One notable man, however, was Imran Zakhaev, the United Kingdom's first authorised assassination order since the Second World War. We couldn't sit back and let them get the nuclear material of course- money for the fuel? It was a recipe for destruction on a global scale. Back then, I was under the command of MacMillan._

Price was crouched down in the grass, looking somewhat like a bush because of his ghillie suit. Next to him, MacMillan was prone, almost invisible, looking through his sniper rifle. The desolated buildings- both the ones they could currently see and the larger ones inside the city- were an eerie sight to see, knowing that they had been full of life several years ago- that Chernobyl had been an occupied city.

But seeing it so dead and lifeless, the only sounds of life being the odd tick of Geiger counters. MacMillan slowly got up into a crouch, and in response to it, Price drew his M21.

"Follow me, and keep low. Watch for the pockets of radiation- too much and you're a dead man. Keep an eye on your Geiger counter."

Price nodded and followed after MacMillan, the grass further obscuring them. MacMillan inched forwards with his Geiger counter before grimacing.

"Too much radiation. We'll have to go around."

Price nodded, and they began to inch around the main streets of Pripyat. The air was thick and cloggy, and the sky was a miserable grey that almost reminded Price of home. The grass was an ashy grey, tangled and thick, and upon touching it, it was brittle and weak, tainted by the radiation.

"Hold."

He raised a hand as they entered into a dilapidated shack, the wood being splintered and rotten to all hell. Price froze behind him, going stiff and silent as he waited for MacMillan's go. Together, they slowly crept through the small shack, appearing out at the other side.

_Getting into the city was easy enough. The patrols were scarce, and the ones we did come across were easily silenced. The thick grass made more than a good body dump. That part of the mission progressed smoothly- about the only thing to go our way._

"Contact. There's an enemy patrol dead ahead. Stay down, and move slowly."

Looking through his scope, he could make out the men, dressed in black clothing. Moving his eyes away from his scope, he dropped to a crouch, and followed behind MacMillan, trying to not be too noticeable. They got fairly close, before settling down, going completely prone.

Price moved his sniper to his eyes, and watched the two figures converse, talking about something that didn't matter for their mission progression.

"Take one out when the other turns away."

"Yes Sir."

Price echoed, carefully moving his aim so that it would be over the leftmost figure's head, finger resting on the trigger. He prepared himself to pull the trigger as MacMillan got his own shot lined up.

Taking a breath and remembering his training, he pulled the trigger, letting the bullet fly. It embedded itself in the back of the man's head, resulting in a splatter of blood along the grass. MacMillan's target fell a mere second later, leaving the coast clear for them to progress.

"Good kill."

They moved to what seemed to be the entrance to the main camp, stacking up outside of it. As MacMillan peered around, he stopped, turning to face Price. He appraised Price before clearing his throat.

"Where do you think we should go from here?"

Price carefully looked down the main path. He could hear footsteps and hushed Russian from somewhere down the path, but the area was exposed, they could be seen easily. And if they could be seen easily, then they could be shot easily. But the path would also be shorter to get into the city. Going on the outskirts would mean more cover, just longer.

"I think we should follow the path outside of the camp."

He whispered, somewhat hushed.

"It's more covered, and we can't get discovered so easily."

MacMillan nodded, his face still covered.

"Follow me, and stay low."

_Little did I know that then, I had passed a test of MacMillan's, simply by heeding his training and analysing all outcomes of a scenario. A lesson, might I add, that I'd like you all to remember._

Price followed behind MacMillan as they crawled around the outside wall, with them coming to a stop outside another shack, this one with a dusty window. As MacMillan made the signal for stack up, he peered through the window, eyes lingering for a moment or two before placing his back to the wall once again. He looked at Price with a stern gaze, nothing the man wasn't used to.

"Four tangos inside. Don't even think about it."

He warned. Price lowered his rifle as they listened to the conversation at hand, mentioned in light-hearted Russian. The conversation was relaxed and familiar like they were perfectly at peace. That meant that MacMillan and Price had done their job right, and hadn't been detected. Which was an incredibly good thing.

"_Передай сигареты."_ (Pass me the cigarettes.)

Russian One, affectionately- sarcasm- named Ciggie for the sake of Price being able to keep track of them all, asked, somewhat politely for a man ready to shoot anybody who crossed their path. Tangos were weird like that, Price remarked to himself.

"_Чей ход?"_ (Whose turn is it?)

The newly named Poker- aka, Russian Two- asked, who, upon inspection from Price, was looking at his cards. Now, Price couldn't actually tell if they were playing poker or not- because he didn't look at the cards and or chips, just how many there were, and their positions. The important stuff.

_Even then, I had an eye for the details- the important ones that is. Necessary, considering that the mission I was on was an assassination mission. But even my attention to detail and MacMillan's best guidance didn't save the mission- well. It could have ended a lot worse than it did..._

"_Это ход, Юрий! Эй, Юра! Не спи, твой ход, Анатолий поднял ставку на два доллара!" (It's your turn, Yuri! Hey, Yura! Don't sleep, it's your turn! Anatoly has raised the bet by two dollars!)_

Ciggie exclaimed emphatically, voice loud and chirpy. There was a brief pause in the conversation before another voice spoke up. Yuri no doubt. At least Price didn't need to give this guy a name.

"_Слишком дорого для меня. Я сворачиваюсь."_ (Too much for me. I'll pass.)

_Where was guy four?_ Price asked himself. He dared to bob up again, noticing how the fourth person had indeed disappeared. He ducked back down, peering around the other corner to make sure that they couldn't be snuck up from behind. He wasn't round there either.

"_Слишком дорого? Захаев платит нам вдвойне за эту работу! Лёгкие деньги, нет никакой опасности, нет шанса перестрелки. Кто сюда приедет? Это ядерная зона бедствия! Здесь скорее умрёшь от рака, чем от пули." _(Too much? Zakhaev pays us twice as much for this job! Easy buck, no danger at all, no chance of firefight. Who will visit this place? It's a nuclear disaster area! You'll die from cancer rather than from a bullet.)

Price didn't get much time to ponder before MacMillan beckoned him forwards, and Price followed with an unsettled feeling and a tumultuous gut.

_Since that day, I learnt to follow my gut instinct. It will never leave you astray- remember that._

* * *

Author's Note

Stay safe everyone, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

~Cait


	11. Chapter 9 - One Shot, One Kill

_One certain effect of war is to diminish freedom of expression. Patriotism becomes the order of the day, and those who question the war are seen as traitors, to be silenced and imprisoned. – _

_~Howard Zinn_

* * *

[15 Years Ago]

["All Ghillied Up"]

[Chernobyl, Pripyat, Ukraine]

[Lt. John Price]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

[Target: Imran Zakhaev]

[Distance to target: 896.7m]

[Bullet travel time: 1.05s]

_This part of the mission progressed fairly well. We got into the city without being detected, ghosts in a world where they didn't exist. Chernobyl only got more desolate as we got further in, the Ferris wheel being one gust of wind away from toppling, and the metal one touch away from giving one of us tetanus. It was a mercy that I'd had all my shots. _

_Our vantage point was a fairly good one, our view largely unobstructed, and there was a clean getaway route- in the form of a little bit of abseiling. We were too high up for the enemies to easily spot us, and outside the patrolling area, so we didn't need to worry about being snuck up on. I remember the rifle I used and the weather conditions like it was yesterday: an M82 .50 Calibre Sniper Rifle, with windy and grey weather conditions. For all accounts, it was the Coriolis Effect that fucked the mission- that, and my dodgy aim. Had I made sure to fire a second shot- well, we wouldn't be here now._

Price shuffled from his prone position against the concrete, waiting patiently for his target to emerge. Three days had passed from the time they had first infiltrated, and the top of the building had practically become their home. He was looking forward to a proper bed once this was over. MacMillan was also peering through at the designated meeting point, using his binoculars, guiding Price on how to make his shot- his single shot.

"The wind is gettin' choppy. Remember to compensate for it- or wait it out- and also what I've taught you. Don't forget about the Coriolis Effect either."

"Yes, sir."

He reported, looking at the photo of Zakhaev before focusing on his rifle once more. He zoomed in the scope and looked at the meeting place. Several green cars were there, along with flags. To go with the numerous vehicles, there were many men, the whole area is more congested than the cafeteria in Credenhill.

There were odd trunks filled with what Price assumed to be weapons- going by what they knew about Zakhaev- and they were sealed shut. A green jeep approached from the right road and pulled to a stop. A man exited from the passenger side, heaving a heavy bag over to a table. He zoomed in to its farthest setting, and lined the crosshair over the man's head, finger loosely hanging over the trigger.

"Ok… I think I see Zakhaev. Wait for my mark."

MacMillan paused from beside him, holding his word for the briefest of seconds. Price took note of the wind by looking at the flag on the back of a car, which was blowing to the left strongly. Price edged his rifle to the right, and pitched it upwards a little, mentally calculating the shot distance and other variables that MacMillan reminded him about.

"Target… acquired. Confirmed, I have a positive ID on Imran Zakhaev. Hold steady."

They started throwing gold bars to one another, throwing them as if they were simple footballs, before a large helicopter flew in front, blocking both Price's and MacMillan's views.

"Ach. Where the bloody hell did he come fae? Wait for him to move Laddie."

Price nodded, waiting patiently for the helicopter and its rotor-blades to move out of his way, so he could get a clean shot lined up. It took its time, but eventually, it twisted and moved out of the way, resulting in another clean shot as the path was clear.

"Take the shot!"

Price did one final bit of adjusting before pressing the trigger, and as he shouldered the rifle's recoil, he could see the bullet strike home, tearing off Zakhaev's left arm, but also alerting all of the Ultranationalists. They began to duck into covering positions as MacMillan confirmed his shot.

"Target is down. Nice shot, Leftenant. Think you blew his arm off- shock and bloodloss will be our friend."

Price didn't get a chance to say anything as the helicopter from before came back into view, guns spinning and aiming directly at them. Before MacMillan could even give the order, Price took aim at the helo and struck the pilot with two bullet wounds to the chest. The helo entered a death spiral, and landed on the ground in a large burst of flames, the scorching heat burning Price even from the high point.

"Great shot! Let's go!"

Price slung the rifle over his back and turned, backtracking to the side of the building, where their rappels, were. As Price quickly hooked himself up, the sounds of gunfire becoming stronger and stronger, MacMillan called out to him as he jumped through the window and began to lower himself down.

"We'll have to take the shortcut!"

They both quickly began to rappel down, short hops down the building. Price didn't want to be abseiling for too long- they were in a prime position to get shot. Just as they got halfway down the building, adrenaline flooding his veins, the room that they had just been occupying blowing up like a scene out of a James Bond movie.

Shards of glass falling only served to make the two SAS members repel faster, the shards cutting at their arms. They landed roughly, balls of fire-spitting at them, and Price sliced his rope off abruptly, before sheathing his knife again and raising his M21.

"Leftenant, follow me!"

They banked to the right, ducking under an overpass of sorts. They then crossed what looked to be an old main road, the remains of cars reminding everybody of the disaster that occurred there.

"Delta Two-Four, this is Alpha Six! We have been compromised, I repeat we have been compromised, now heading to Extraction Point Four!"

It took Delta Two-Four a few seconds to reply, during which time Price and MacMillan were forced to take cover behind a few of the cars, the bullets ricocheting dangerously off the rusted metal. Price popped out of cover for a brief moment, swinging his rifle around and taking down three enemies in a burst of gunfire. As a few shots came dangerously close to his head, he dropped back into cover.

_Alpha Six, Big Bird is en route. ETA - 20 minutes. Don't be late. We're stretchin' our fuel as it is. Out._

Nothing like a bit of added time pressure. Still, discretion wasn't required this time around so in theory, they should be quicker this time around. They wasted valuable minutes trying to clear the road so that they could pass, but eventually, they managed it.

They sprinted, taking off shots at enemies who crossed their paths, and managed to get to the bottom of the road, the enemies thinning out somewhat as MacMillan and Price thinned them out.

"They're coming up from behind!"

Price called out, sending a spray of bullets to ward off the incoming enemies. A bullet grazed Price's knee as MacMillan slid back into cover behind an old truck, before calling out to Price over the comms.

'_I've got you covered! Move forwards to me!'_

Taking a breath, and firing a final spray of bullets, he sprinted forwards, vaulting over the truck's bonnet, movie style.

_We were beginning to get surrounded, with no backup, and eighteen minutes left to get our arses to extraction. Two men versus an army: not good odds. Even if one was a celebrated Captain. But we fought tooth and nail to survive- and survive we did. _

_As you very well may have guessed, considering MacMillan is still training folk, and I'm standing right here. If you didn't guess that- well, maybe you aren't in Bravo Team for your brains._

"Sir, we can lose them in the flat!"

Price pointed out.

_Looking back, it's weird to think that I used to refer to Mac as Captain. But back then, I was just a leftenant, and Mac hadn't quite hammered it into my skull that he hated being referred to as Sir or Captain. Forgive an old man's nostalgia- we'd better get back to the story of Imran Zakhaev._

"Good eye Leftenent. Follow me!"

They pushed forwards, before breaking off to the left, hugging the wall. Passing a rusted set of swings and the fire of a helicopter, they moved into a dilapidated apartment, methodically checking out each room. They jumped through what seemed to be a kitchen window, before climbing through to the next flat over, this one just as rundown and worn.

_By the time we got out into the main street again, in the midst of dilapidated__play parks, we had lost most of our pursuers.__But we had another problem, that went by the name helicopter. And said helicopter had bullets that were capable of shredding through human flesh._

"Incoming helo!"

MacMillan called out, staring the helicopter down as it's guns span.

"Snipe the bastard!"

Price quickly raised his rifle up at the helicopter, aiming for the weakest point- the rotor. Once that was out, the helo would fall to the ground like the chunk of metal it was. So, he did. He placed several shots to the centre join, watching the sparks fly around as he did so. MacMillan did the same just as several bullets began to fire, but between the two of them, they made quick work. It went up in a burst of flames, crashing down into the ground- yet it continued heading towards them, making a large divet in the ground.

"Shit Lad! Run!"

He turned heel quickly and retreated backwards as the helicopter encroached on the two soldiers, the blades looking bloodthirsty and menacing. The metal could easily pierce any limb, and that was exactly what it would do.

While Price managed to get away uninjured, save for a few bullet-shaped bruises on his torso, MacMillan was pinned under the wreckage, the rotor blade cutting through his leg as easily as cutting a slice of bread.

"Bloody hell, I can't move!"

He exclaimed. Price quickly came running over, taking a look at the injury.

"Give me a second, Sir."

He grasped his hands around the blade, looking at MacMillan's wound. He took a breath and began to heave, lifting the blade upwards and out of the ground. As he moved it to the left of MacMillan's wound, letting it re-impale into the ground, Price crouched down to get a better look at the wound. The cut was deep, just below the knee, and bleeding heavily.

A severe wound, but while Price was no medic, his basic training told him that MacMillan would be fine with some recovery. Tearing off his belt, taking all of his grenades and flashbangs out of it, and passing them to MacMillan, he wrapped it above the wound.

"This is going to hurt."

He warned. He estimated how tight he needed to make the belt, stabbing a hole in it in the process- allowing it to become tight enough to be a semi-decent tourniquet. With MacMillan's nod, he threaded the end through the buckle, and pulled it tight, securing it in place with the little pin.

The only sign of pain from MacMillan was a stifled groan, as Price gently picked MacMillan up, and slung him over his back, holding his arms and legs carefully. He wasn't too heavy, and Price was easily able to carry him to the extraction point- just having to pause every so often to put MacMillan down to return cover fire.

_It was good that Mac was a lightweight. It was even better that the helicopter hadn't caused any permanent damage or injury- he was fine. Of course, it made getting to extraction just a little bit harder, and more of a challenge- it was a good thing that I always like one of those._

Price set off at a brisk pace, checking his watch that was fixed around his wrist, noting how much time they had left. Thirteen minutes, and the rendezvous was to the south-west of their current location. It might be tight, but they could do it.

"Tangos incoming!"

MacMillan warned. Price nodded, carefully placing MacMillan down behind some cars, near the edge so he could peak round without risking getting shot. The helo blocked the way they had come, so sneak attacks weren't at the top of his list to worry about right now. He reloaded his clip before quickly peaking over the car, noticing the three different paths, and the lines of enemies walking across, all eager to fill both MacMillan and Price with bullet holes.

They needed to get rid of them quickly, otherwise they would miss their extraction time. So, he pressed the trigger, felling three enemies, as MacMillan knocked down two. Both men ducked back behind the cover, as MacMillan drew a grenade, pulling the pin. He waited a few seconds, resting the ball bottom of the grenade in his hand, before hurling it with his overarm.

As they stayed back behind the car, there was a large explosion, along with screams and growls in Russian, as no doubt countless enemies fell to the floor. It took them a few minutes- valuable minutes- to clear the junction, but soon enough Price slung MacMillan back over his shoulders and set off at a brisker pace.

_I'll gloss over all of the fighting, because quite frankly, it isn't necessary. I could just tell you that we managed to escape, and end it there, but I imagine you want an ending to this little story. So, I'll skip to where we had to defend our position before Delta Two-Four could come. It took them five minutes, but it was a very long five minutes. And, a very painful five minutes. This is what happened..._

At last, they had finally gotten to the Ferris wheel, in all its twisted metal glory. MacMillan was still coherent and lucid, which was always positive, and Price had gotten MacMillan settled down in the grass off to the far left, obscured by the long grass.

It then became a mad dash to cover the field in claymores to try and cover the advance and thin the ranks out before they got too close and overwhelming. The minute MacMillan had reported that he could see the first lot of enemies, Price high-tailed it back to the right side, taking cover near the Ferris Wheel.

'_I've activated the beacon. We need to hold out.'_

MacMillan reported, and Price nodded stiffly, raising his rifle and scanning the field, staying as still as he could as the enemies encroached on their position. He picked off a few at the same time MacMillan dead, and as their enemies darted behind cover, without even getting onto the booby-trapped field.

Their job became a lot easier as they became wary of walking across the field, which meant that not only was it easier to not become overwhelmed, but it was easier to get shots off at them. An explosion went off as one man decided to take the plunge into the field, and there was a literal blood rain, along with a quick scream, sudden and abrupt, cut off before it could really ring out.

Price took a few more shots, reloading before the tell-tale sound of rotor blades emerged. And they weren't the helicopters they were waiting for- no, they were the enemy choppers. And from them, more enemies dropped from ropes, meaning Price and MacMillan had to divert their attention to snipe the men as they fell down the ropes, making them all land in a disgraced heap of bodies.

As a bullet embedded itself in Price's shoulder, narrowly missing breaking the bone, Price had to quickly shuffle positions, firing off more bullets to try and subdue them. Like a symphony, more claymores went off, their explosions sounding like a staccato in a musical piece.

'_Where are you Delta Two-Four?! We are heavily outnumbered!'_

'_A minute away, Alpha. Prepare to board on arrival.'_

Their estimation had been accurate, as a strafe of bullets went across the ground, warning off and killing several other enemies as Delta Two-Four landed, several SAS members leaping out and returning covering fire.

Taking a rough glance, Price got up quickly, dashing over to MacMillan and carefully carrying him into the helo, followed by the rest of the SAS members. As the helicopter rose, the back folding in, and the bullets harmlessly ricocheting off the chassis. As Price set MacMillan down on the seats, there was a proud sort of grin on the man's face.

"Good job Lad. You'll go far. One less bastard the UK has to worry about."

_Except that wasn't one less bastard. As we found out today, he's still alive. How? Why? All valid questions, but not the one we need to ask. The question that we need to ask is, how do we make him stay down for good?_

* * *

Author's Note

Hope you are all doing okay, and thank you for the reviews.

~Cait


	12. Chapter 10- A Stand Off to be Remembered

_"Life doesn't get easier or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient."_

_~Steve Maraboli_

* * *

["Heat"]

[Day 24 - 17:39:02]

[Northern Azerbaijan]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

The story had lasted throughout the entire trip back to the village, and Echo's distaste towards the man hadn't lessened at all. Though he moved from universe to universe, a severe loss of life to further his own mission was not acceptable, not by his hands. Sure, he wouldn't have to live with the physical after-effects of his genocide, but it didn't make it acceptable.

Not by any means. They were running across a grassy portion of path that led behind some of the building, and the Ultranationalists were trying to convince the team to give up and surrender. As if they would, considering they would be getting shot upon surrender. Having regrouped with their support team, they all nestled down on the cliff edge, pulling out their rifles.

"Ignore all of that bullshit."

Price ordered, crossing his arms as he himself went prone. There were going to be casualties… but Echo was determined to save as many lives as possible.

"Echo, get up on the church tower. The rest of you, go prone and pick them off"

He nodded, turning on his back as he looped around the building and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. Once at the top, he rested his rifle on the wall, settling into a kneeling position so he was eye-level with the scope. They were encroaching on the hillside, walking along efficiently, brandishing their weapons and trying to encircle them. But they had a nasty surprise waiting for them, as soon as Price gave the word.

_Echo, what do you see?_

Price asked over the radio. Why Echo was made to go up there instead of Soap or Gaz, he wasn't sure, but it didn't mean a thing to him. He scanned across the hill, watching. They split up into several groups. One moved off to do what looked like loop around and flank from behind, and the other groups gathered at the foot of the hill, ready to move. Further back, there were more reinforcements coming to get them, hidden by the trees from the ground crew.

"_They've split into four groups. Three at the foot of the hill, with one moving to flank us. More reinforcements are coming, I'd say a group of thirty to forty."_

There was a hesitation within the radio response, but there was a hushed response that seemed like 'blow it'. But that must have definitely been the answer, considering that the path went up in a rapid series of explosions, and bone-chilling screams of pain that echoed around the battlefield.

_Open fire!_

Price commanded. A cacophony of bullets emerged as they took careful aim, trying to wipe out as many as they could before they could overwhelm the group. Echo took a measured aim at some of the men, picking off the targets one by one.

He ducked back down behind the wall as more bullets were fired at his head, dust crumbling off of the walls. He quickly reloaded his clip, waiting for the hail of bullets to die down somewhat. He moved to the other side of the church tower, staying low to avoid getting another gunshot wound and began to fire off bullets at the squad who were trying to sneak behind.

_Hold your ground! They think there are more of us then there is!_

The gunfire directed at Echo stopped, and he bobbed back up, returning fire. For as many of them as they killed, there was more filling in their place, and they were beginning to overwhelm them. Ammo was beginning to run out, and Echo had given his grenades and flashbangs to Gaz, to distribute amongst the squad.

_Damnit! How many more are there?!_

Gaz cursed in frustration, as he let off another round of explosives. In response, the Ultranationalists shouted something else that Echo couldn't quite make up from his position, but most likely meant smokescreen, as the hills and incoming enemies were obscured by a blanket of smoke, thick and dense. It also blocked Echo's sight, meaning he couldn't see anything and didn't want to risk hitting someone else.

_They're putting up smokescreen cover. Mac, Echo, can you see anything?_

Echo tried to see through the smog, but he couldn't. He couldn't even see the road any more, which isn't good for anyone. It was completely obscured, which also meant that they could get jumped at any time. Mac, who was also both higher up and further away, sitting on a parallel tower on an adjacent building, and it was up to him to try and figure out where they were moving.

_There isn't much movement on the road Sir, but there is some movement to the west._

There was a pause before Mac was going to say something else, but it got cut off with a crackle as there was a high pitched whistle. Echo looked up at the sky, seeing large, bullet-shaped, missile-like things fall down, landing on the hill with dirt-raising explosions.

_They are targeting our position with mortars._

Gaz quickly moved into a crouch from his prone position, still keeping an eye on the smokescreen.

_Fall back._

Echo quickly shouldered his rifle and slid down the ladder with ease, regrouping and moving back up the hill behind Soap who had taken point. It was going to be a long time before they got on that chopper, and Gaz was not going to be happy. Nor was Echo, if he was to really think about it- up and down the hill more times than a bloody yo-yo. A mortar hit far too close for comfort, hitting directly where Echo had been sniping from not ten minutes ago.

_Two dropping back._

_One holding position._

_Three on the move._

Echo turned to Gaz, as they began to retreat backwards, retreat

"I'll cover our retreat!"

He took a few potshots at the enemies, as Price and Soap gathered back into position. Gaz didn't look like he particularly wanted Echo to go alone, but he was only staying behind to place some claymores down. Plus, he couldn't be babied forever, one injury didn't mean that he would get injured again just as easily.

"_Go!"_

He emphasised. If Price could get up on the hill, their advance would be covered easily enough. Between the three groups, they could cover their sides, at least long enough for their evac to get there. Echo reloaded his clip as Gaz covered him. Price nodded reluctantly.

"He's right. Go Echo. But if you get shot again I'll kick your arse into next week."

Echo allowed a little grin as the rest of his squad began to retreat to the next defensive line. Echo meanwhile pulled out his few claymores and darted between gunfire and cover to place them down along the paths, just out of plain sight. He scrambled back behind cover before firing another volley, narrowly avoiding a shot to the arm.

_Echo get your bloody arse back up here!_

_Well, I'd better not disobey Price_. He fired off a few bursts, as there was a whirring noise. It was like the sound of a helicopter's rotor blades, but Echo grinned despite himself at Soap on the minigun. He quickly broke into a sprint as he scrambled up the hill, taking cover by a cluster of rocks. Soap fired more bursts as Echo took cover, the explosions of the battlefield loud and ear-piercing. He quickly took down a man aiming at Soap, who had been hiding behind a wrecked car in an attempt to sneak attack him.

"Echo!"

Gaz called out as he continued to fire a spray of bullets. With his free hand, he threw his grenades over, resulting in Echo catching them easily from where he was. Echo nodded at Gaz, rolling it around his hand as he pulled the pin out with his teeth, before throwing it over the rock wall.

It skirted over the course path, striking unaware enemies with the blistering heat of an explosion, them falling like a set of skittles. Echo glanced up at the sky, and just over the distance, past the burning remains of the church tower, there was an entourage of helicopters, no doubt coming with more reinforcements. Echo pushed up the hill, using the wing of the downed bird as cover, reloading his rifle and staying by Gaz's side.

_"There are five or six enemy helicopters incoming from the southern side, about four klicks away."_

He reported, spraying the path again as Gaz looked up. Echo sprayed the path with bullets as Gaz cursed in his Londoner accent, becoming more pronounced as they got put under more stressed.

"Bloody hell- that's a lot of helicopters."

Echo dropped back into cover, refilling his clip again as Gaz took down several more enemies with well-placed bullets. Soap aimed the minigun at the incoming helicopters, desperate to take them out before their millions of bullets- okay, that might have been a bit of hyperbole- made their home in the SAS' bodies.

_One moving to defensive line B_

After a few seconds of firing, the helicopters went down quickly in succession, in a blaze of fiery explosions. The heat surged towards them in a sweeping wave, stinging his skin as he turned away to protect himself, covering his face.

"_Confirmed hit on thae heli's Soap!" _

Echo reported, even though it was blatantly obvious to everyone that the helicopters were down, considering they fell like blazing meteors. Soap even stated so, as he peeled off more bullets, Echo sniping off as many hostiles as possible.

_I never woulda guessed lad. It's nae like their fallin tae the ground or anything._

Echo rolled his eyes, but continued shooting, not saying another word as Price's accent could be heard over the comms.

_Chatter._

Not a few minutes later, squad 2 reported back over the comms, as Echo was down to his second-to-last clip. He was going to have to swap out his gun, or ask one of the others if they had a spare clip going free- unlikely, as they were likely to be going through as much ammo as he was. They wouldn't be able to hold out for much longer, even with all of the traps and bombs they set up.

_Two dropping back to defensive line B._

There was a pause as Echo drew a grenade, and threw it high into the air, landing in the middle of the path, distracting the enemies for a few vital seconds, and some getting caught in the unfortunate crossfire. Unfortunate for them, that is, not for Bravo Team.

_Everyone, fall back to defensive line B. Soap, go to the Tavern, arm the detonators!_

Echo checked his clip. He had one and a half clips left. Echo grabbed a smoke grenade, tensing it in his hand as he prepared to throw it, to provide cover. As Soap stopped spooling up the minigun, Echo lobbed the spherical grenade along the path, sending it skirting along until the chemicals inside it reacted, creating a large smog that obscured them.

Echo ditched his covering position, sprinting further up the hill and flanking Gaz, who took cover in front of the main entrance to the Tavern. Echo crouched next to him, checking his gun again. There was a momentary lapse in the enemies attacking, as Gaz noticed Echo's lack of ammo.

"There's spare ammo and grenades inside the Tavern. It was all we could scrounge."

He told him. Echo nodded, quickly moving from his position at a brisk pace and ducking inside before the gunfight started again. He grabbed a few clips, fully stocking once again, grabbed a few more flashbangs and grenades, and got more ammo for his secondary. Grabbing some for Gaz too, he stormed back out into the field, and passed some ammo and grenades to Gaz.

"Thanks, Mate."

He said between shooting some of the upcoming enemies as Echo picked off a few who were further away. Doing his usual nod, Echo continued picking them off, switching between his sniper rifle and M21 depending on whether there were more hostiles closer or father away.

_Soap! Detonate line Alpha!_

_Copy_

Within a few seconds, more explosions went off, thinning out the ranks efficiently. _I can see how he's a demolitions expert. _Echo thought to himself. _None of the explosives rigged have failed to explode, not once, and that can be a problem. Especially where we have to try and hold all of the hostiles off while we wait for exfil- bombs and the like taking out large waves by themselves. _

Once the explosions had died down a bit, Gaz cursed loudly, ducking back behind cover, blood oozing from his shoulder. Echo dropped back behind cover, and tore off his sleeve into a clean strip, looking to Gaz so he could give permission for Echo to patch him up. Gaz nodded, grimacing.

"Through and through. Clean."

"Good."

He wrapped it around the wound, knotted it, and tied it tightly around his shoulder, stemming the bleeding. Gaz nodded firmly, quickly springing up as Soap detonated line Bravo. More enemies flooded in the gaps made by the explosions along line Bravo and Echo threw a flashbang out, covering his eyes as it lit up quickly. He quickly bobbed back up and returned fire, trying to push them back and hold them off.

_We have enemy tanks approaching from the north. Suggest we fall ba- ah bloody hell! I'm hit!_

There was a lapse in conversation, in chatter, as Echo and the slightly recovered Gaz provided cover fire. Soap set off line Charlie, to buy them time, as Price gave more orders, to support the injured Mac and the rest of Team One.

_Soap! Get to the barn and grab the javelins! Echo, go and back up Mac. Gaz, on me!_

Echo quickly took advantage of the lapse of shooting, and made a beeline up the hill, keeping low as Gaz and Price diverted fire. He rejoined with Soap a little distance up the hill, covering his back as they got to the barn. From there, they split. As Soap went to the barn to get the javelin and take down the tanks, Echo made his way to Mac's position, the secondary defensive line, scaling up the impromptu perch easily.

The sight wasn't a pleasant one. A nasty wound, just above the right thigh, oozing blood. Mac was pale, his gun to his side, and on the ground, his team were continuing to pick off enemies one by one. Mac had already lost too much blood for a simple tourniquet to work, and it looked like the wound wouldn't stop bleeding without drastic measures. Echo tapped Mac's face to get him alert, and he opened his hazy eyes.

"Compress the wound with your hands."

Mac nodded, and Echo quickly pulled out his pistol. He ejected the clip, pulling out a single bullet, before putting the clip back in, holstering the gun. Grabbing his combat knife, he placed the bullet on the ground and placed the tip of his knife on the body, before pushing down on it deep enough to create a small hole. He poured out the gunpowder on his hand, before looking at Mac, who was drifting off.

"This is going to hurt."

He warned, before getting a nod and a wince. Echo spread the gunpowder inside and around the wound, and as he moved onto cauterising it, Soap took down some of the tanks. Did he have to save Mac? No. But was it the right thing to do? Yes. And that was all the justification he needed.

* * *

Author's Note

Thank you all for the support, and enjoy this chapter!

Stay safe,

~Cait


	13. Chapter 11 - The Bloody Hill

_"If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude."_

_~ Maya Angelou_

* * *

["Heat"]

[Day 24 - 18:03:02]

[Northern Azerbaijan]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

"You have _got _to be taking the fucking piss."

Gaz practically snarled, as Soap threw down the javelin angrily into the dirt. They were slowly beginning to get boxed in, ammo slowly running out, and just when they were beginning to think that they'd get their exfill, they find out they have to get down the hill to get out. Even Echo was annoyed, despite knowing that this was going to happen, and understanding why the LZ had to change. Gryphon Two-Seven reported back just as quickly.

_Afraid not Bravo Team. Be advised, we are approaching low from the south across the river. Recommend you haul ass to LZ Foxtrot at the base of the hill. I have some good news for you- Harrier-Two-Two is able to provide cover fire. Two-Seven out._

_This is Harrier-Two-Two, ready to commence strafe run on your command._

_We're going to have to break through their lines! Soap, commence a strafing run!_

Quickly, one of the soldiers from the first squad wrapped Mac's arm around his shoulder, pulling him on his back, and began to carry him down the hill, following behind their own squad. As Soap called in the strafe, there was a distinct affirmative as several hundred bullets or so were scattered across the first defensive line, scattering them and resulting in many bodies falling to the floor.

_Go, go! Push!_

Price barked out as they sprinted to the wooden fence, using the weak wooden poles for support. Taking his second to last grenade, Echo threw it over the fence as Two-Two came around for another run, cutting through the hordes of enemies with ease. Price jumped the fence, soon followed by the rest of them as they charged down the hill, firing spray after spray at the enemies, dodging bullets here there and everywhere. Echo turned sharply as he instinctively moved to the side, narrowly avoiding a nasty barrage of bullets.

"They're boxing us in!"

Price turned around, retreating backwards to help cover them. As Price felled many enemies, he simultaneously called in for another strafing run, to help cover their backs. They had just reached the tree-line, the LZ in sight, as the strafe run came across again, allowing Echo and Price to face forward once again.

_We are landing at the LZ. Multiple friendlies exiting, do not fire. _

_One final push!_

Gaz shouted as they all stopped shooting in favour of running towards the ramp. As they all dived in, sparing a greeting to Griggs, the Marines also filed in behind them, and despite multiple shots being fired at them, Gryphon Two-Seven got successfully off the ground, taking them back to Credenhill to recoup for a while.

* * *

[Downtime]

[Credenhill, UK]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Despite his medical intervention, Mac didn't survive the wound. It was too serious, and they weren't able to get him suitable medical attention. Another person added to the memorial pyre, someone that they had grown to know well. Echo felt like he had failed in his mission a bit. He was told to save everyone... but Mac and countless others still died. What was the difference between someone he needed to save, and someone who he didn't?

Echo sighed as he sat in his dorm, scribbling in his notebook. The thoughts that plagued him was new to him, the feeling of regret and failure.

He focused on his notebook, pushing the thoughts to the side. What was he scribbling? How to avert the upcoming bridge massacre. It wouldn't be simple- asking for air support wouldn't happen, likely to be shot down fairly soon after arrival, and asking for pick up sooner from Kamarov would make Echo seem suspicious as if he knew it was about to happen. The first idea was to make sure that he was the one driving the truck.

If he could do that, with a bit of luck- he hated leaving things to luck- then his reflexes should hopefully prevent the crash, and consequent massacre of the Marines and Bravo Team. But there was no promise that it would occur the same way, so it couldn't be his only plan. There was the option to simply shoot the helicopter _before _it blew the bridge, but the shot would be difficult to pull off without revealing his supernatural abilities, and plus, the shot could be impossible anyway.

He was still thinking heavily about it as he looked up, hearing someone's footsteps outside the door. It wasn't any of his squadmates, that was for sure- they were all on a training exercise at the minute. He had the room to himself. Whoever it was, quickly let themselves in.

There was something about them that made his hair stick up on edge, as while he looked perfectly human, there was something… familiar about him. Something odd. The man smiled, something unnerving, as his grey eyes looked straight at Echo, almost seeing through him.

"I see you're planning how to save your team, Echo."

Echo's head snapped to attention, several thoughts flooding through his mind. _Did I make a mistake? Will I be excommunicado? _Despite the nature of possibly being found out, the reference to one of the more colourful Universes he'd been to almost put a smirk on his face had he not had such control over his emotions. As it was, he kept a straight face, nothing revealing escaping as his lips pursed, in feigned offence.

"Excuse me-"

"Or should I say, Guardian?"

Echo paled, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a shiver down his spine, his stomach churning with a foreign feeling. It wasn't the first time he'd been nervous, but it was still a nasty feeling all the same. Still, he forced himself to keep a neutral expression on his face: while the man said Guardian with an inflexion of power like it was a title, he could refer to Echo being _a guardian. _

But he knew that it was wishful thinking, and he clenched his fist. The man's grin was up to his ears, predatory, and he crossed his arms, staring at him.

"Who are you?"

He asked, dropping all pretences of deniability. He leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms and looking increasingly relaxed, while Echo was just getting agitated. His saving grace was that he could be incredibly patient when push came to shove.

"It doesn't matter who I am. Who are you?"

Echo blinked in confusion, narrowing his eyes. He obviously knew who he was: the Guardian. A title and a name, if it could even be the same. Unnerved, even more, he tried answering honestly: he didn't consider himself particularly slow on the uptake, but he was feeling threatened, just by his mere presence.

Unless it was a test by Life or Death, but they would usually do it before or after a mission, as to not risk his cover. But evidently, whoever this was didn't care.

"Guardian."

He answered. The man shook his head, beginning to move around the room, looking out of the window and at the groups of men and women walking across the Credenhill grounds. The man's back was openly exposed to him, and Echo could easily attack him, not that it would do anything but compromise him.

"Wrong."

Echo paused, narrowing his eyes. That was _wrong? _That was one of his names… the one he went by and answered outside of the Universe. Maybe, if the answer wasn't Guardian, it could be James Gibben? So, he decided to answer with that.

"James Gibben?"

The man shook his head in that chastising manner, and Echo admitted that he was confused. Was it one of the many identities he'd taken in his service. The man turned around, clearing his throat and watching him with analytical eyes.

"No. Let me give you a clue: a name is often a unique identifier, given to one by a parent or guardian, to refer to something. It sticks with them throughout their life, and while it can be changed, is not commonly done so."

That… didn't help much. His name, going by that definition alone, would be Guardian. But he'd answered with that already, and it had been a no. So… what was it then? He was beginning to get a little annoyed at all the riddles and games, but again, he had patience. He thought about it a little more and thought back on something he'd said a few seconds ago. Guardian was the _title _and his name. But it also wasn't his name… he was just referred to as Guardian because of his job. And if that was the case…

"I don't have a name."

The man grinned, eyes sparkling as if he'd had some accomplishment. All he'd really done was infuriate Echo, and give him stress. _Why was he here?_

"Correct. And as for your little, let me guess, save the main characters in the Universe, don't worry about it. I'll sort it. Now, another question: how do you identify yourself?"

Wasn't that the same thing as a name pretty much? He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. The man quirked a smile, turning to leave.

"I'll let you think about it. I'll be seeing you again."

Echo was just left watching as he left smoothly, snapping his diary shut and in deep thought. Does he report it to Life and Death? _No. _He decided. _He didn't do anything- I'll wait and observe, and see if he does anything to jeopardise my mission._

He sat down in the briefing room, with the rest of Bravo Squad, crossing his arms and trying not to show that he was rattled. Price was at the top of the table, the head. Gaz and Soap were on the left, and Echo was on the adjacent side. The main team was there- if they needed the side squads, they would be invited for a separate briefing.

A small projection of the mission appeared, and they all drew their attention to it. Griggs also came in, greeting them all with a respectful nod of the head. Price, with the marine's arrival, began to speak.

"Well, we got Al-Asad."

A picture of Al-Asad came up on the projection, along with a big cross through it. _Confirmed dead. _Nobody- unless you were _extremely _lucky- could recover from a bullet to the head. But in this case, his brains had literally been blown out by Price.

"Still, he wasn't the one responsible for killing your marines. Sorry mate."

"So who is?"

A picture of Imran Zakhaev appeared, along with several pictures, most of them older, with one hazy picture that was more a suspicion of it being him than a confirmed photo. One, Echo could see, was from Price's old mission. And he only knew that because Price showed them all it on the way back from Azerbaijan.

"Imran Zakhaev. If there's ever a ghost, this man would be it. Intel says he's deep underground."

"But still operating. Azerbaijan shows that. He just uses a network of allies to do his dirty work for him."

Echo commented quietly, his tone neutral. Price nodded, crossing his arms as he looked at them all, a snarl lurking beneath his frown.

"An astute observation Echo. A father will always look out for his son, just like a son will always look up to his father. And I have a plan on how to get him.

A picture appeared underneath Zakhaev's own one, named Viktor Zakhaev. They looked alike, the same colour of skin, the same colour of eyes. In both pictures, they both had a downturned smile, sardonic and cocky. But Viktor looked more youthful, for obvious reasons. A strong resemblance… could that lead to a determination to be just like his father? Echo had always looked at Viktor critically, throughout his many trips throughout the universe.

He was an interesting character: could one be truly blamed for being the way they were if they were raised to think that was acceptable? That line of thought would never excuse the atrocities that the person in question committed, but it made you think a little more about a person who would exist for one mission. A web if you will.

"Daddy's boy."

Grigg's commented, and Price nodded along as the rest of them watched. Price pointed to his picture, eyes narrowing in an analytical glance, staring directly into the eyes of the son of the man who had escaped his bullet fifteen years prior.

"Imran Zakhaev's son, Viktor. Commander of the Ultranationalist forces, but all around small fry in the terms of things. Rotten apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Kamarov, the loyalist, has a location on the kid."

"And of course, a son will always know how to find his father."

Soap answered in his thick accent, and Price grinned like a shark. They all looked at the picture once again, before Grigg's commented on something very true.

"Sins of our fathers."

They were due to fly out tomorrow, to Russia. To try and get a hold of Viktor Zakhaev, to use him to get ahold of Imran Zakhaev. To get justice for the thousands of American Marines who were killed by _his_ bomb. Which was why Echo was at the firing range. It never hurt to get some practice, even if he also had millennia of practise beforehand. It also provided a good stress reliever, and even the Guardian couldn't escape the shackles of stress.

He had signed out a selection of weapons, AK47's, a couple of rifles, pistols, anything to really improve his aim. There wasn't much else he could do while he waited for the days to trickle through. It also gave him time to think about what the figure had said to him. _Are there more people like me in the Universe? _He'd thought that all previous Guardians had been killed in action, or by Life and Death by breaking some kind of sacred rule.

He fired off a shot, squaring his shoulders and squeezing the trigger. The bullet pierced the centre of the training target, straight where the heart would be. A killing shot. He took aim again, this time aiming for the head. _Is it possible? And what were the questions about __names? _There was something deeper, something that prompted both the visit and the questions. But what was it? _It's definitely not a plan of Life and Death. _

He thought back to the slight disdain the figure had when speaking about them. Almost as if they'd had previous experience with them. _But that can't be possible.. or could it? _He squeezed the trigger, and the bullet went slightly wide, causing Echo to focus on it. He'd… _missed? _He was so used to being perfect, infallible, that missing such an easy shot without intentionally trying to do it was a real shock to him.

_I cannot afford mistakes like this. Mistakes will cause death. Death will cause a mission failure. And that, that could be the ending of my existence._ He reloaded the gun as Soap came in, crossing his arms as he looked down the range.

"Missing a shot? That's unlike you, Lad."

Echo turned to face Soap, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he laid the pistol down on the table, instead picking up an AK. Echo ejected the mag and had a look, before turning to face Soap, trying to come off as nonchalant.

"There's a first time for everything."

Soap nodded acquiescingly, almost as if to concede the point, but he kept right back on it, pressing on it further. And it wasn't as if Echo could tell him the truth, not that he'd get believed anyway. He'd be more likely to be shipped off to a psych ward.

"But even then, you have a laser focus. So what's plaguing your thoughts?"

Soap kept pushing and wasn't about to let him go with a mediocre answer. He sighed, trying to seem defeated. There was no point in trying to continue to lie, considering that would jeopardise his trust with the team, and would also make it a million times harder to stop them all from dying later on.

"The upcoming mission."

He answered, with a hesitation that wasn't even faked. Soap watched him, as the man in question picked up one of the spare rifles and fired a few bullets down the range, the moving targets not being too difficult to hit. There was a brief hesitation in Soap's speech, before he fired off a few more bullets, then turning to face Echo himself.

"What about it?"

* * *

Author's Note

Hi everyone. How are you all doing? I swear I ask this every week, it's apparently become my new schedule.

Thanks for all the reviews and follows that this story has been getting, and I appreciate it! I hope I can provide you all with a little bit of entertainment during these times.

Anyway, I'd better go to sleep.

Wishing you all well!

~Cait


	14. Chapter 12 - Sins, Sons and Suspicions

'_A true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.'_

_~Unknown_

* * *

"Something doesn't sit right."

That was his answer, vague but honest. It was true: something didn't sit right, but it wasn't necessarily the mission which was giving him this impression. It was a mixture of his earlier encounter, and unease of what's to come. He'd never had suspicions about Life and Death before, just assuming that he was created for the purpose of solving the literal world's quarrels.

It had never come to the forefront of his mind that having a name was wrong, nor had it really become obvious that how he was being treated was subhuman. He had been shaped and reformed, becoming so many people in his lifetime, that he truly had nothing that was 'his' any more. He had almost every personality type, every flaw, every skill and every name.

But all of those were borrowed, something to be discarded and returned once he was done with it. What little of a life he had, had been heavily tempered by rules and regulations. It was restricted. He couldn't pick his name, his last name, what he liked and disliked, how he looked. It wasn't chosen by him, and he was forced to go along with it.

He couldn't even say if he wanted to do something or not, he was forced to. But despite all that… he was trapped. They could eradicate him with the snap of their fingers, they could wipe his memories, or they could do something much worse then he could think of.

"You know what Price says: follow your gut. What seems off about the op?"

A few more rounds found themselves a new home in the dummy, as Echo laid his rifle back down, examining the clip. He looked at Soap before moving his sight so that he was looking at him dead in the eyes.

This was by far, the most approachable version of Soap that he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, but as always, his rules, his restrictions, stung in his mind, reminding him not to get too close. Still, it was somewhat concerning that Soap could read him so easily, after Echo had years- as an understatement- of keeping things a secret, keeping them hidden.

"I get the impending feeling that something is going to go wrong. As if… not everything is as it seems."

Soap crossed his arms, watching analytically. As Echo thought deeply about his mission, both that of Life and Death's and that of getting the insolent son, he realised that there was something missing. Something that connected that of the mysterious man who had visited, to Life and Death. He- they- knew too much for it to just be a coincidence.

But what was the missing link? Whatever it was, he knew he would have to pay careful attention to his steps in the future. Or, more accurately, pay even more attention to his steps. Soap nodded in agreement, carefully watching Echo's expressions, which Echo himself knew wasn't as controlled as it once was.

"We'll have to be extra careful, especially considering the covert nature of the op. But, Echo, heed your instincts: you never know where they might lead you."

Echo nodded, as Soap turned away, leaving Echo to his shooting once more. And, escaping Soap's notice, several bullets hit the target, dead centre, tearing massive holes in the chest.

* * *

Echo rotated his wrist, reminding himself of where he'd injured himself previously. Subconsciously, his hand reached up to his head, almost as if he was trying to find a wound that wasn't there. At first, he'd taken it as a sign of failure, something that was wrong with him, that he was a failure.

But… what if there was nothing wrong with him?

That was a bitter thought to think and lead to more questions. Who were the Guardians before me? Life and Death have said on numerous occasions that this role has been around since the beginning of time. And I certainly haven't had this role for that long of a time, so who, and how many, had it before me?

And what happened to them? He had a sneaky suspicion that they had been killed, but for what? Why? How many? What happened to them once they 'die'? He shook his head free of the thoughts. Too many like them, and he would be 'retired' by Life and Death. So, he looked at his notepad, before snapping it shut. As things were as they were, there was nothing he could do about it right now. It wasn't as if he could Google it, or he could just ask them directly.

Echo focused on the mission, the one that had changed from an obligation to a self-set one. He would not let his team die, not keeping them alive for Life and Death, and instead out of his one new desire- the ability to choose what he wanted. The sad irony was that the one thing he wanted happened to coincide with what Life and Death wanted him to do- so was it really his own choice?

* * *

["The Sins of the Father"]

[Day 35 - 03:34:26]

[Somewhere near Southern Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

They were on the helicopter to Russia. He was with his squad, with the Americans on a neighbouring helicopter. They were flying into a desolated land, empty but near the checkpoint. They could exit easily without fear of being seen, and use the ground cover to get to the checkpoint and take it over smoothly. Kamarov would meet them in that opened area, ready to invade with them.

There was a wide range of people able to speak Russian in their assembled group, but obviously, out of them all, Kamarov would have the best accent and happen to look somewhat Russian. The conversation between them was quiet, Nikolai flying them in. The last time they'd had a casual conversation was before they got shot down and forced to fight their way out, and that was something that was high above all of their heads.

The ride was long, and unfortunately, the helicopters weren't designed for comfort. Fortunately, Echo wasn't expecting comfort, and everyone on the chopper was used to it. It certainly saved some amount of arguing.

"How's your Russian Echo?"

Said man shrugged in response, clearing his throat. Speaking Russian was almost as easy as speaking English, the only difference being it wasn't supposed to be a first. He could imitate a perfect Russian accent if he wanted to, but it would be odd considering that James Gibben had spent his entire life in Scotland. It was harder faking some mispronunciations then one would think.

_"Почти так же хорошо, как ваш, сэр."_ (Almost as good as yours, sir.)

Price rolled his eyes in response, looking less like the stern captain they knew, and more like your old drinking buddy. Truth be told, Echo had been so rattled by his latest tumultuous thoughts, that he'd almost- almost- forgotten to add sir onto the end.

"Good. Soap?"

Soap grinned, flashing his teeth ever so slightly, before letting out his own sentence, as Echo leant back in his seat, eyes flickering everywhere as a feeling of paranoia went up his spine. Still, on the outside, excluding his eyes, he forced himself to keep calm, body still and his breathing calm. He knew all the signs, and fought himself, refusing to show them.

_"__Как это звучит?" _(How does this sound?)

"Like a drunk Russian trying to imitate a Scottish accent."

Price commented dryly, before looking at Gaz, who shrugged.

"I'm stuck with my London accent sir."

Price nodded in affirmation, carefully looking over his squad. Echo guessed it was to try and arrange positions. Gaz would need to be a fair distance away, to reduce his chances of getting in a conversation. Soap, while was better than Gaz, looked far too Scottish to be Russian.

While Echo's skin was slightly more oily in nature, helpful in this case, Soap was somewhat pale, due to his untainted Scottish heritage. There was no way he would be getting away with that. Price, with his Boonie hat pulled down low, obscuring most of his features would certainly likely be the best bet. Griggs would be useless considering he spoke no Russian, so if Echo were to guess, he'd be hiding with Soap.

The rest of the Marines would be providing overwatch, and Kamarov's team would be covering the perimeter.

"The Yankees better be good shots."

Gaz commented in amusement, chuckling somewhat. Even Price was somewhat amused, rolling his eyes at his antics. Unusual. There was definitely something going on between the squad. Something that Echo wasn't privy to. It irked him somewhat, but he chose not to call them out on it. There wasn't much else he could do otherwise.

"I'm sure they will be."

Price reassured, catching Echo's glance. Echo tilted his head curiously, before returning his attention to the flight at hand. That took precedence right now- and it quickly became vague whether it was his unease about the strange man or his unease about the mission. Either way, it bothered him, but he went along with it regardless.

There was some idle talk before it turned to the topic of favourite things. Gaz had brought the topic up, and everyone had taken turns answering it. Price had answered with his Boonie hat, given to him by MacMillan when he became Captain. An item with sentimental value, that Price was never seen without. Soap's answer had been his bagpipes.

That had been a surprise to Echo. He didn't know that Soap could play, which actually explained why he was so offended when he said he didn't like them. Soap promised a demonstration when they got back- apparently, Soap was sometimes enlisted to play them when it was a special occasion- or a mournful one. Gaz had answered with something more unique, a lucky charm that his sister had given him. It was a charm of the SAS logo, and it was attached to his dog tags.

He pulled it out proudly to show them off, and Echo realised with dread that he had nothing of the sort to share. James Gibben had no such sentimental attachments, and it had never felt so glaring.

"And you Echo."

He picked up his pen, the object quickly changing into an old looking watch. The gold was slightly rusted, the glass of the watch chipped ever so slightly. The interlinks were slightly melted out of place, meaning it wouldn't quite fit on his wrist.

"This watch. Was my Da's."

The words felt heavy in his mouth as he said it, the lie feeling sticky and horrible. The words would normally not affect him like that, nor would the innocent question, but now, they were just a reminder of how abnormal his life was. In his hands, the watch stayed frozen, the conversation dropping faster than a helicopter from the sky.

* * *

["The Sins of the Father"]

[Day 35 - 04:01:41]

[Southern Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

They landed onto the open field, tense with their guns raised. Their gear jostled as they stepped off the helicopter, a slight trepidation overcoming them all. They hunkered down, Grigg's staying by their side as everyone got into their assorted positions. There was dust as the helicopter lifted off again, as they waited for the signal that everyone was in position. Quickly, the Marines were in obscured places, and Kamarov's loyalists had spread out in a fan, covering the base. At long last, it was time for them to begin the operation.

"We've got to take this quietly. Kamarov?"

"This is the best way to get in."

He confirmed in his heavy Russian accent. Price pursed his lips for a moment before focusing on the mission ahead again, staring down the checkpoint like one would stare down the gates of hell. And so, Price gave the orders that would begin the mission, and unknowingly, would set in sequence a chain of events that not even Echo could predict.

"Vulture One-Six, we're in position."

Copy Bravo-Six, this is Vulture One-Six. Radio jammers are active, you're cleared to engage the checkpoint. Out.

Price took a moment to survey the scene, and as he did so, so did Echo. It never hurt to over-analyse, especially when lives were at stake. There was a large bin in front of the looping arc that was the entrance, providing a perfect step-up to get some recon with the rifles. Soap and Griggs were both armed with R700's, lethal with their shots.

An American rifle, with bolt action. You wouldn't want to cross one of the bullets, because they could and would tear you apart. The range was a fair distance away, and in the hands of a capable rifleman, it was a loyal weapon that would do you good. Everyone else was armed with a G36C. The recoil was slightly on the heavy side but had less sway on the red dot sight and iron sights. A fairly good assault rifle with a decent drum, good for what they needed it for.

"Soap get on the dumpster and prepare to take out the guards on my mark. Everyone else, on me."

Everyone grouped behind Price, stacking up outside the door as Soap silently climbed onto of the dumpster, rifle raised and trained on the man in the tower, who was circling, moving the light and trying to find enemies. They were pressed against the large marble arch, out of reach from the light, and so was Soap, close enough to the perimeter wall that the light couldn't reach him.

The checkpoint was something that every person on the road and to go through, there was no way to avoid it. But it was also quite small, meaning there were few people there at any one time. When it got busy, it tended to be people who stayed overnight.

"Soap, take them out now."

There were two piercing shots that rang out, soon accompanied by loud yelling. Price looked at them all as Soap jumped off the dumpster, rejoining Bravo Six.

"Go loud!"

Price yelled as they flooded in the small checkpoint, sweeping it methodically. The battle was short and brief. Bullets flew, but ultimately the enemies had no chance. Outnumbered and outgunned, they were easily picked off, leaving nothing but dead bodies on the floor.

They carried out one final sweep, finding no stragglers or people hiding, so they were clear to proceed with the rest of the mission. Price looked at them all, scanning over the bodies, as they stood to attention, awaiting their next orders.

"All right, let's get this place sorted out. Change into enemy uniforms and douse the fires. Kamarov, I need your men on the ground if the drivers start asking questions. Just keep them busy until we locate Zakhaev's son. We don't have much time, so get to it."

* * *

Author's Note

Short chapter, and consequently, short author's note. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I appreciate all of the support.

Thanks, and stay safe,

~Cait


	15. Chapter 13 - Sins of the Fathers

_"The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children."_

_~ William Shakespeare_

* * *

["The Sins of the Father"]

[Day 35 - 6:20:18]

[Southern Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Waiting two hours for Zakhaev Jr to arrive was long and dull. It took them about half an hour to get the place dressed up. Bodies hidden, blood trails obscured with dust and rubble, and other innocuous objects, clothes changed into. The hat dipped down over his eyes, made it slightly difficult to see, but helped to hide his pale face.

The outfit was slightly too small for him- who would have guessed that there were no six-foot Russians- both short in the sleeves and short in the legs. His guns were slung over his back as his hands rested on the bar in front of him, Griggs moving the searchlight in a sweeping pattern, more for show than anything else. Gaz was at the top of the roof, proned low, far back enough so that he was just out of easy eyesight if you were to enter from the main entrance.

Echo was moving from building to building, just so that if anyone were looking, it would look like everything was normal, eventually moving towards the red car that was at the left side of the entrance.

_Bravo-Six, we see a possible __convoy__ heading to the checkpoint. About five clicks. Be advised._

_Not long now. _He thought, scanning the searchlight again. Echo had since moved in front of the red car, and Price was underneath where Gaz was, leaning against an old rusty car that looked like it had been run over by a tank. Price moved so that he was standing in front of the gate, with a gruff appearance, ready to confirm or deny whether their target was in the entourage or not.

Kamarov's lead commander, Oleg, quickly talked to Kamarov, before returning to his position which was next to Gaz on the roof. Their eyes were trained on the rough dirt trail that lead in. Griggs looked at him wryly, as if he knew something Soap didn't.

"It's a good thing you're up here: You look nothing like a Russian."

Soap rolled his eyes in response, still watching the road. He answered with an indignant response, only intensified by his rough Scottish accent. _My argument really loses it's steam once my accent gets involved._

"Aye, like yer Yank accent is any better. _По крайней мере, я могу говорить на этом чертовом языке."(At least I can speak the damn language.)_

As if he was trying to prove Soap's point, Griggs himself rolled his eyes, continuing to move the searchlight. Price and Echo were talking about something that was private, and Gaz was talking to Kamarov, having a min-shouting match in order to hear one another. The event was odd in itself considering how Gaz had dangled the man over the edge of cliff the last time they had a conversation.

"I don't know what you just said, but at least mi accent doesnay soond lik thiss."

His accent was so far off of Soap's that it made him laugh. Griggs would be best sticking to the Marines, and not go into a job of undercover work or drama work. He rolled his eyes at the mickey take, as Echo and Price separated, Price placing his hand up to his ear.

_Convoy__ incoming. Hold your fire, on my command._

The two soldiers immediately stopped laughing and joking, quickly taking their rifles off their backs and having them propped against the tower light. Kamarov moved forwards as his men closed in, and in order to really sell it, Price and Echo both saluted as Kamarov barked at them to stand back in heavily accented Russian. _Cheeky_. Griggs moved the light so that it focused on the trucks, as Price began to speak to the occupants.

The envoy was six cars full, and Echo, after being directed by Kamarov, began walking around the cars, shining the light on his gun through each of the windows. Price did the same, working on the other side, both of them trying to find their target. Price quietly murmured into his comm as he kept them distracted, getting them not to focus on the rest of them.

_Target_ _located__… confirming… confirming…. Confirmed. Target is in the second vehicle, __I repeat, second vehicle, __ready__ your weapons, __and watch your fire._

They all paused, waiting for the next order, guns trained on the surrounding vehicles. It was innocuous, and their bodies tensed, ready for the jerk reaction to begin fire. Price and Echo subtly moved away from the vehicles in order to clear the line of fire, and reduce the chances of friendly fire, as Kamarov's men subtly did the same. It looked like they were simply giving the convoy space to move on, which didn't tip them off.

_Smoke em._

The scene became chaos very quickly, conidering it was such a carefully crafted operation with three organisations involved. Sniper shots were heard from the hidden Marines, spaced out and few, weaving and avoiding their allies. The Russians lit up the convoy like the Fourth of July, and it took them little time at all to make the engine of the first vehicle set fire and blow up.

Griggs and himself were picking off some of the tangos trying to get out of the open-topped cars, as they fell. It was difficult to pick out specific voices between the explosions and gunshots, but Soap quickly caught Price's sharp warning, made all the more obvious when several soldiers were diving out of the way of the speeding car that Zakhaev Jr was driving.

_Soap! The tower!_

"He's gonna hit the tower! Hang on!"

Soap did so, clinging to the side as if it would save his life, as the tower teetered and tottered as if it was debating whether to fall or not. His heart was roaring in his ears as the wood supports splintered and cracked under the weight, the concrete floor coming up closer. Soap had no time to react, no time to do anything other then put his hands up in front of his face and relax his muscles as much he could.

"Son of a-"

He was seeing stars as he blinked open his dazed eyes, a sharp pain coming to his notice almost immediately. Splinters of wood were covering him, and in front of his sight, the vehicle that Zakhaev Jr was driving was halted with a smoking engine, and wheels stuck fast by embedded sandbags. _I guess there is a silver lining for every cloud. _

Soap remarked to himself, still dazed as he tried to focus himself. Had the tower not been there, he likely would have sped off, making it difficult for them to track him down again. His head was pounding, and he could still hear gunshots being rattled off. Looking up, Zakhaev Jr was fiddling with a gun, before being forced to move away from the car as the engine gave in, exploding in a hot, fiery explosion.

Rather than seeing black encroach on his sight, it was replaced with white spots, the heat surging all over his body, charring the tips of his hair. Zakhaev Jr fell to the ground, before scrambling back up, ignoring Soap in favour of running off with his tail between his legs.

He had no idea where Griggs was, but Soap forced himself up off the ground, cradling his left wrist uselessly. _It better be a bloody sprain otherwise Zakhaev Jr is going to have a lot more to worry about then an interrogation._

_Echo, can you see them? _

_Soap is here, lucid, dazed, but alright. The target is fleeing._

Echo appeared in Soap's line of sight, making him wonder when he'd gotten so close. He'd been over by Price the last time he'd checked, so why was he over by the tower? Echo offered him a hand, which he accepted, shaking clear the rest of the spots, as Echo looked at him carefully, appraisingly. _Well, I did say to listen to his gut instinct._ Echo pulled him up, glancing at the retreating form of Zakhaev Jr.

"I'm alright, let's go!"

Soap insisted, and Echo gave him a brief lookover before nodding in agreement, the two of them sprinting after Zakhaev Jr, feet clambering over roof tiles, the impromptu ramps barely staying in place. _Damn, this kid is fast. _He couldn't help but remark. Zakhaev Jr was leaving them behind in the literal dust, and he was lucky that it was his wrist that was sore and not his ankles or legs.

_Me and Soap are pursuing the target._

_Roger. Be careful. We'll catch up when we can!_

The paths that Zakhaev Jr took was through a maze, walls made of cars stacked high, almost asking for it to tumble down. Stone paths were rough and uneven, easy to trip over if they weren't careful. Despite his head start, they weren't far behind, they could see his cowardly back, every so often throwing nervous glances back towards them.

_We need eyes-on, Vulture One-Six._

_Roger, Bravo 1-4, tracking the target._

Soap heard Echo report as they charged towards a building, the bricks grey and the thatched roof looking like it might topple down. _One spark of flame and that roof is going up faster than Guy Fawkes on Bonfire Night. _

One blink later, and a demonic dog with black fur came charging out at them. Fangs were bared, eyes boring into Soap, and before he could pull out his pistol, Echo put the dog down with two shots to the head. He fell to the ground limp as they continued charging through the building.

"I thought you liked dogs?"

He asked, not focusing on Echo's face as he put his pistol back in his holster. The floor creaked as heavy footsteps pounded it, with them coming out at the entrance. Echo was breathing heavier than usual, footsteps heavy as they took a harsh right at Vulture One-Six's command. _I don't think I've ran this much since Bootcamp. _

Despite the harsh training you were exposed to in the SAS: abseiling down rigid mountaintops, swimming in ice cold water, running several miles with heavy equipment, you didn't use some of those skills were often. Running several miles with heavy equipment was something you could do, but didn't necessarily have to.

"I do. Just less so when they are trying to maul you."

_Be advised, this area is infested with hostile forces, over._

If he thought the paths were rocky then, they were worse now, the only difference being that they were tarmacked. Puddles littered the black tarmack, and the doorways were prime spots to get surprise shot at. They lapsed into silence as they both got their weapons out, and as commanding officer, Soap felt like he had to say something.

"Watch your fire, but clear to engage."

Echo nodded, as Soap unholstered his pistol with his good hand. If Echo noticed his injury, he didn't say anything. The two of them went through the wooden house on the right, the rooms empty and not worth focusing on. Echo turned left as they exited the house, and swung up his G36C, killing the hostiles before Soap even got time to lift his pistol.

_His reflexes are impressive. __Why does he never react like that normally? _Soap had watched him before, a habit of his, to make sure they were alright. He had noticed Price doing the same thing. The point was, Echo had never reacted that quickly before. It was almost subhuman. Adrenaline can do many things, he knew, and coupled with his own alertness for the feeling that something was wrong, and it was a recipe for heightened senses.

But this… this was almost like he knew they were there. He decided not to call him out on it, preferring to observe more before jumping to any conclusions. They continued running, and the minute they got out onto what looked like the main street, there were other men running alongside Zakhaev Jr. He was easily identifiable by his attire- while the rest were wearing heavy gear, he was wearing a thin puffer jacket, looking like a teenager trying to look cold.

Following on from that, it made it easier to pick them off. As Echo cleared the left side, Soap cleared the right with his pistol, his shot shaky and lose due to being unable to use his wrist, but still landing what looked like killing blows, or at the very least, incapacitating blows. They continuing following Zakhaev in a linear route- if the man was trying to lose them, he wasn't doing a very good job.

_There's a side alley on the left which might let you cut him off._

Soap looked at Echo, a silent conversation between the two. _Take it? Yes, I'll meet you where the paths converge. _From then they split, Echo darting down the side path, and Soap pursuing on the main road, swivelling his pistol every so often. Shooting with one hand was difficult to do if you wanted a steady shot, but once he'd gotten used to it, it was easy enough to pull off.

Case in point, he put down another dog hungry for his shin, the dog going down with a whimper before collapsing and dying. Soap ducked behind a car as he got shot at from down the street, and quickly sprung up and finished him off, resuming his chase after the coast was clear. _We've got to get him. _Soap snarled to himself, focusing on his mission to ignoring the jarring pain in his wrist.

_Mind over matter. If he goes, we're going to have a hell of a time getting his father out __of the underground. _Soap used that motive to drive him, as he saw Zakhaev climbing up onto the roofs, slowly.

"He's on the roofs."

He barked out through the comms. There was a harsh, breathless, bark of acknowledgement from Echo as the vague, indiscernible sounds of him presumably climbing something came through the radio. As Zakhaev got up onto the roof, Soap followed, climbing the ladder with one hand using the skills he learnt to push himself up the ladder by using his legs to propel himself. _That's a mouthful. Thank God for MacMillan's __thoroughness._

_We've dropped the hostiles and are gaining on you._

Gaz reported, and Soap nodded, finally managing to get onto the roof and charging across to try and catch this guy. On his left, Echo leapt a gap, his foot catching on the edges of the tiles. As he stumbled, Soap swung his right hand around to catch him by the collar of his uniform. He heaved his weight back to throw Echo back on the roof, the gap between them and Zakhaev consequently growing larger.

Echo growled at himself- _another odd behaviour, he's never normally that mad, at least, not visibly- _before nodding in thanks to Soap as they both started running again.

"Thanks."

Soap smiled in reassurance, not annoyed at Echo at all. Sometimes they had to take risks, and it just happened that this time it didn't pan out. The roof suddenly lowered so that you could easily jump it, and that was what Zakhaev Jr was planning to do: jump. There was a large concrete building in front of them, the car park filled with rubbled cars, alight and flaming, and there were flashes of gunfire from the concrete windows.

The building was dilapidated, falling apart, and yet, it looked like Zakhaev was heading there. _A good strategy. His allies are in there- and they'll distract us long enough for him to either make a clean escape or disappear. We need to thin out those troops to make it easier for us. _Zakhaev wasn't close enough to the building for an attack by the helo to hit him, and it wouldn't be danger close either.

"Vulture One-Six, can we have a firing run on the building at twelve o'clock?"

_Copy, preparing strafing run._

The run had an unexpected side-effect. Instead of continuing to run, Zakhaev Jr hesitated at the edge of the room, turning to watch Vulture One-Six strike the concrete building with a whir of their minigun. This hesitation allowed Echo to catch up, and he tackled Zakhaev Jr over the edge of the roof, and out of Soap's sight until he peered over the edge. Echo was on Zakhaev Jr's back, wrenching his hands behind him and hooking them together with some rope.

"We've got him."

Soap sighed, letting his body relax at seeing that Echo was okay. There was a brief hesitation over the comms, before Price reported in, sounding slightly out of breath.

_Copy. Meet up at Exfill Alpha._

* * *

Author's Note

Hope you are all doing well!

~Cait


	16. Chapter 16 - Interrogation

'_Don't let anyone else define you are.'_

_~Ant Middleton, SAS: Who Dares Wins_

* * *

["Interrogation"]

[Day 36 - 12:01:42]

[SAS Outpost, South of Utaya, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Echo knew that his cover was dangerously close to being blown, in a way that it had never been before. He'd acted too quickly, too inhumanly, doing things that he shouldn't have been able to do. The fact that he'd been right next to Soap after the tower collapse was just one thing to give him away, his pre-emptive shooting when they were exiting the building another.

He'd been consumed with trying to protect Soap to even care about keeping his cover, and he was going to pay for that at some point, somehow. Soap had dislocated his wrist in the fall, but after the nurse at the outpost had reset it and bound it, he was as good as new. Well, almost. Everyone else had been checked out while they were there, except for Zakhaev Jr of course.

Price had gotten a skimmed shot to the right side of his ribcage, but his armour had taken most of the impact. A bandage wrapped around waist had solved that particular injury. Griggs had a concussion and a few cracked ribs as a result of the fall. Gaz was largely uninjured, a few scrapes and bumps, and Echo… was fine. He was clean, in a literal and physical sense.

There were no shots, scrapes, bumps, or even bruises. He looked like he'd been for a walk in the park rather than a chase through a battlefield. _Something else to prove I'm no normal SAS Lieutenant. _He crossed his arms, drawing himself out of his thoughts as he watched the interrogation about to happen. Zakhaev looked like a little kid, quivering, snivelling, looking terrified.

His eyes were blindfolded, his hands locked onto the table by heavy rope, and his ankles tied to the chair's legs. Price was in there with Gaz, Gaz pulling a fairly jovial expression, and Price doing his most terrifying look that was usually reserved for someone who had done something heinous. Soap and Echo himself were watching from outside the room, waiting for the information that would make their next mission.

And it would happen: the man was snivelling before the interrogation properly begun. For someone who was so loyal to his father, he looked like he was just about ready to spill all his secrets before anything actually happened.

"Let's start off with something simple. When were you born?"

Gaz asked politely, a contrast to Price's sneer. The two in the interrogation room were a force to be reckoned with. Gaz was hoping to create a positive relationship with the would-be-terrorist- because that was what he was- which Price was going to use to manipulate him into giving the two of them the answers. He wasn't a hardened veteran, not in any way or form, and by the looks of it, he wasn't exactly aware of their interrogation techniques, much less on how to resist them.

_You'd think his father would give him some kind of training against interrogation. Is he that cocky? _A false sense of security was trying to be established as he answered the question because of course, he would. What harm could learning his birthday do? _A lot of harm. It's a gateway to more questions, you just haven't realised it yet._

"April 22nd, 1971."

That was the correct answer, according to the dossier. Starting out truthful… Echo wondered what his play was. _You give someone an inch, and they'll take a mile. _Give Gaz and Price a little bit of the truth, and they'd keep going until they had all the truth. Gaz nodded contemplatively, watching with a narrowed gaze.

Like Echo himself, Soap was also watching the interrogation through the blacked-out window, his injured wrist dangling at the side. Though he normally was itching for something to do, he was watching the interrogation with an incredible intensity, noting down anything that he could use to his advantage. His thoughts from earlier were pushed aside, as Gaz and Price continued to interrogate.

"What are your father's plans?"

He shook his head, stubbornly refusing to answer. Gaz frowned, crossing his arms as his fingers drilled along the table. Price lunged forwards, slamming his hands on the table, creating a bang that startled Zakhaev, and caused Gaz to feign a flinch. With his Boonie Hat barely obscuring his eyes, there was an intense glower fixed on his face.

"_Thousands _of US Marines and UK soldiers died in that _fucking _bomb blast! I'm not willing to risk any more lives because of a titchy little daddy's boy brat. So what if you go back with a few missing limbs?"

To anyone who knew Price, they would know that this was a facade. When the man got angry, he didn't verbalise it by yelling and slamming things. Not often anyway. Usually, he displayed it by going quiet, with a tremor evident in his voice to show how angry he was. Never by yelling, and the man didn't swear when he was angry.

Or if he did, it wasn't the word fucking he used. It tended to be some variant, like bitch or bastard. Still, Zakhaev didn't know Price, and he probably believed that the anger was genuine in its appearance. Because, while Price genuinely was angry about the thousands of soldiers killed, he wasn't that open about it.

"So what? It's not like you knew any of them. They were just your underlings."

He told them, in his brisk Russian accent, as if the deaths of all those soldiers didn't matter just because they didn't have a high rank. That was the wrong thing to say. The very wrong thing to say. Price grabbed his knife out of its sheathe as fast as you could say 'pissed off Price', and it quickly found its way into his hand, resulting in a steady stream of blood pooling on the table.

There was a flash of pain evident on the man's face, along with a snarl that sounded pain-filled. _Well that's a given, considering he got stabbed in the hand. _And from the looks of it, Price had put a lot of weight behind the stab, making the knife go clean through, severing God knows how many nerves. Gaz glanced at Price, who was clenching his knife tightly, like a lifeline.

"Sir… Maybe you should take a breather."

Price in response grit his teeth, staring at the two of them. He took a minute, looking between Gaz and Zakhaev, before sheathing his knife and storming towards the door. Price took a minute to pause at the door, narrowing his eyes at Zakhaev and then Gaz.

"I want answers."

He told him sternly, before going out, slamming the interrogation room door shut behind him. The minute Price was safely behind the door, his entire demeanour changed into that which they knew. Calm and collected Captain Price.

"How long until he cracks?"

He asked, as all three of them turning to face Zakhaev and Gaz who were talking to one another. Well, it was more accurate that Gaz was interrogating Zakhaev by getting all buddy-buddy. Soap shrugged in response, turning his attention from the interrogation onto Price, his lips thin as if he was in deep thought.

"I'll give him an hour."

"An hour and a half."

Echo estimated, it being a genuine guess for once. Price nodded, crossing his arms, casting his eyes to the interrogation room, before returning it to the conversation at hand.

"I'll go middle then: an hour and fifteen."

They lapsed back into silence, watching the interrogation proceed. About half an hour into the interrogation, Gaz had left the room to 'get him a bandage' and some food, as if he was in a little hostel, and not an interrogation room. The summary of the interrogation so far was that while no secrets had been divulged, Gaz was confident that he would break.

Break sounded so violent for something that was fairly peaceful in nature. Well, minus Price stabbing him through the hand. Gaz had gone back in, dressed the wound, and about fifteen minutes into that, Price went in, blade cleaned and twirling in his fingers ominously. Let's just say that after a two-hour interrogation, they had their secrets, and Zakhaev had been extradited back to the United Kingdom.

Of course, by then, Zakhaev Snr had found out about his son's _kidnapping_ and well, had a response made to it. Because of course, he did. Still, Echo was curious about how the events were going to change because Zakhaev's kid living was a _major _change: what was the knock-on effects?

* * *

_Our so-called leaders prostituted us to the west...Destroyed our culture...Our economies...Our honour. Our blood has been spilled on our soil. _

There was a picture of Zakhaev's son, taken what seemed to be a few months or years before the present day. The image quickly changed to a focus on the United Kingdom, before zooming out again. There was now a large target on the UK that hadn't been before, but that was bound to happen anyway. The image changed to that of fallen soldiers, from both the American, English and Russian sides.

The battlefield was bloody, blood pooling around. The grainy battlefield changed to grainy footage of the nuke that had gone off, the camera crackling and hissing as the shock-wave hit, the camera tilting to the side and going black as it hit the ground. Once the shock-wave had finished, the camera flickering to life, displaying the strewn bodies and dust-cloud, before cutting out again.

_My son, my flesh and blood. Taken by American and English soldiers alike. Dead or alive, his sacrifice for his cause will be honoured. Russia is our Homeland, our Motherland. Ours to protect, to live in, to work for. She must be protected. Respect her, and she will respect you. But these foreign soldiers: they invade our Motherland. So, she must be protected with extreme prejudice._

Echo was a little bit annoyed with the 'English' soldiers. There were many nationalities in the SAS: Scots, Englishmen, Welshmen, and Irishmen. Discounting people from other countries of course. It wasn't just the 'English.' _Odd. I don't normally get annoyed at something like that. _The image changed _again, _this time focusing on a Nuclear Facility, and a large nuke. _And that's going to get aimed at either the US or UK._

_All US and UK forces will vacate Russia immediately. My son will be extradited to Russia immediately, unharmed. Meet these demands, or face the consequences._

The speech cut off abruptly, and the signal that had been triangulated was focusing on the Altay Mountains. That was how they found themselves in the meeting room, planning the op to get inside the facility and neutralise the nuclear missile before it could fire at either country. They most certainly weren't giving Zakhaev Jr back, nor would they be withdrawing from Russia.

They weren't options on the table. And as they were the closest to the Altay mountains, they were the forces chosen to undertake the mission, along with the Yanks they'd been working with. The op was delicate, even more carefully crafted than the last one, despite the lack of time to prepare.

"We can't fuck this up. Either we take the launch facility, or we won't recognise the world tomorrow."

Price began sternly, instructing the assembled team. Griggs, Gaz, Soap, Echo, Nikolai, and the others in the room were watching. The Marines, though lead by Griggs, were obediently deferring to Price, with this operation being his show. The map focused on the Altay mountains, showing the route that the plane would take, along with three drop points for the three teams. Alfa Six, Bravo Six, and Charlie Six. The fourth team, Delta, were their aerial reconnaissance and attack team.

"Alfa Six, you are our ranged support. You will be split up up into two groups: call sign Kilo Four Foxtrot, and Yankee Four Foxtrot. Kilo-Four, you are going to be at the northern end of the complex, Yankee-Four, you will be at the southern end."

Echo was analysing the operation plans. He had to get them through alive, and he was running out of time to make it happen. The mysterious man who had made it possible to get them all out made it difficult to completely plan out, because there was the one unknown variable that he had to account for. Focusing back on the plans, Price was describing the role of the second team: Charlie Six.

"You guys will be breaching the perimeter after we knock out the power. You will be our support when it comes to getting into the actual base."

The rest of the team planning went along fairly smoothly, although Echo was still rightfully worried. He chipped in his own opinions on occasion where he could- without giving it away that he was well aware of what could happen, and while also avoiding blatant disobedience. Still, as they were finishing off the briefing, getting the news that three choppers were primed, fuelled, and ready to go.

Echo took a deep sigh, ignoring Soap's glance at his behaviour, as he moved to get his kit. With his journal burning a hole in his pocket, and the jitters more prominent than usual, he began to try and plan everything else, because regardless of whether it was his mission or not, innocent lives were on the line.

* * *

["Ultimatum"]

[Day 36 - 12:50:34]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. "Soap" MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

The stress was palpable. Each team was sullen and quiet, the stakes for failing too high to be even verbalised. Even Echo, who was normally unflappable and infallible, was stressed. It was evident in the way that he kept his gaze fixed on the window of the heli, and the way he paid avid attention to the attack plan. It was almost as if he was trying to plan contingencies- which, knowing Echo, he probably was.

His fellow Scot was always working, and even when he was on his 'downtime' he was doing something to further his career, be it marksmanship training, CQC, or even just a jog. If someone could be described as a workhorse, then Echo was carrying about four times the load he should. He took on work like it was nothing, and he never once complained.

Even when the rest of them had tried to talk him into taking on less. It hadn't worked. If anything, he was just driven forwards even more, and it was a miracle he hadn't collapsed.

_Greenlight to HALO. Charlie Team, go. Bravo Team, ready. Alfa Team, ready your positions._

As they shuffled about the inside of the helicopters, checking one another's parachutes and back-up chutes, Charlie Team were jumping out of the back of the bird on the left, black parachutes sprouting out and slowing their descent. The back of the helo began to open, as they turned to face out into the blackened sky, the lights of the complex dull and barely noticeable from their position. They all tensed, ready to jump when the order came and came it did.

_Bravo Team, go go go. _

And they fell.

* * *

Author's Note

I'm really exhausted, so I'ma keep this short.

Thank you for all the support, I really appreciate it!

Stay safe,

~Cait


	17. Chapter 15 - Time to Fight

_"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."_

_~Sun Tzu_

* * *

["Ultimatum"]

[Day 36 - 13:42:19]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Echo had deliberately fucked his landing. Well, it was part deliberate, and other parts accidental. The idea was he could get himself taken inside, where Griggs would usually be held. It sounded counterproductive to get himself caught like this- even if his squad would come and get him- and it didn't exactly sound like a good course of action.

Especially running the risk that he could get tortured- even if he was unfortunately used to it by now. There was no torture method in the entire universe that he'd not been exposed to. At this point, he would be more surprised by time folding in on itself than anything else. But getting himself captured gave him _opportunity. _

First of all, the opportunity to think. To try and finalise a plan that would get everyone out alive: that included Griggs, himself, _and _Echo. While he'd rather not let Price go to the Gulag, he'd learnt not to count on it. The times before, where he'd tried to stop it, it hadn't worked out. That little change had ended up in Soap getting shot and killed, a year or two into the future.

When he'd changed it again, going for a second option that included Price going to the Gulag, but Echo falsifying evidence to prove his survival, and thus, launch a rescue mission: Ghost got paralysed by a shot to the back. He'd tried several different ideas and strategies, but none of them worked out without someone being paralysed or killed.

Although, one of his attempts had resulted in the death of Shephard, which would have been a good result had Price, Gaz, Ghost and MacMillan not died in the crossfire. MacMillan had gone with them to provide overwatch but had been killed by a lucky shot to the shoulder with a high calibre bullet. But that was a different timeline, and it did tell Echo what not to do.

This was one of the most finicky universes when it came to changing events, and some were inevitable, unchangeable without serious consequence. The second opportunity it gave was to solidify that he was not superhuman in any way or form. He knew Soap was thinking along those lines, and even thinking for himself, he knew that if anyone questioned his identity, it was going to make his attempts at saving them all so much harder.

Trust was a fickle thing and once taken, it was difficult to get back. He was trusted implicitly by the team, and if he were to sacrifice that now, it could bring his attempts to help them all to nothing. If there was a time that Echo- or rather, the Guardian- was having an existential crisis, it would be now. For the first time in his long existence, he'd been doubting what he'd done, what he'd been doing, who he was. Why was the man- who he had never met before in his existence- so interested in him, giving him paradoxical statements to think about?

What were Life and Deaths ulterior motive- what was their motive in the first place? Why was he needed? The universes tended to run self-sufficiently without his input, so why was he needed in the first place? Why couldn't Life and Death do it themselves? Regardless, keeping his identity- regardless of the debate whether it was truly 'his' or not- hidden was something he was going to have to do. He didn't want to end up in a psychiatric hospital, or worse.

Funnily enough, it was slightly difficult to keep things running smoothly when you were told you were crazy. There was also a third reason to getting himself captured the way he did. This one was more minor in nature, but nonetheless important. _Information. _He could get them talking- in an odd inversion of the typical torture scenario- and gain more information to fuel his attempt at this 'save them all' approach he'd been given.

But his mid-life- well, mid-life wasn't exactly accurate- crisis could be postponed until later. Preferably, when he was alone, and also wasn't attempting to be tortured. It was easy to just retreat into his mind as they tried to threaten him, running a knife down his cheek, splitting the skin, striking cuts like tally marks into his skin. He pulled at the rope that bound his ankles and his hands, as he got struck across the face, sending him sprawling had he not been stuck in the chair.

"Who do you work for, American?"

Echo rolled his eyes in a faux cockiness. Apparently, they didn't like that, because they struck him again, his cheek burning from both the punch and the cut on his cheek, which was dripping drops of blood. He spat out a glob of blood, causing from when he'd bitten into his lip harshly due to instinct.

It hurt, but compartmentalising was a thing he was good at, and he pushed the pain to the far back recess of his mind. Still, it looked like they wanted some answer, so he gave them one- just not to the question they were answering.

"An echo is a sound or sounds caused by the reflection of sound-"

Another punch. They were original with their torture techniques, weren't they? Still, he had taken much worse, as much as he hated thinking about it. Perhaps they'd clue in on the Scottish accent? And how it was blatantly _not _American? They sounded completely different to anyone who had ears. The man in front of him, masked with only the smokey breath to really identify him with, growled, and Echo could imagine hardened eyes glaring at him.

"I will not ask again, American."

Seems they hadn't clued into the fact that he wasn't American. Still, he wasn't going to correct them otherwise. He drummed his fingers, continuing on with some distraction techniques to kill time while his team came. And from the sounds of it, it wouldn't be too soon, if the footsteps outside, faint as they were, were anything to go by.

"-waves from a surface back to the listener. It can also be interpreted as a close-"

A bit of variation this time, because he got a nasty kick to the shin. There were no bones broken, but it was definitely bruised.

"_Юра! Где ножовка?"_ (Yura! Where is the hacksaw?)

Echo ignored the threat. They obviously didn't realise that he could understand every word. The muted footsteps were coming from where the door was, and Echo looked around. He hadn't learned much, to his annoyance, but he could tell that some of the men were scatterbrained and unorganised, perhaps something he could exploit later.

_Four men. One by the door. Others to the side. Four men. One by the door. Others to the side. _He repeated in Morse code, tapping the floor in that rhythm the best he could while his feet were bound. As he received a punch to the stomach, along with a hissed '_stop that tapping.' _he doubled up instinctively, only able to curl up so far thanks to his binding. He swallowed, clearing his throat again, as he continued the tapping, along with his recitation of the definition for 'Echo.'

"An echo is a sound or sounds caused by the reflection of sound-"

And then, the door blew open. Echo reared his seat back, taking the impact of the chair easily. With the area now clear to shoot, Soap took point, firing several shots into the head of the lead interrogator, resulting in a blood spray that soared through the air. Gaz swivelled to the left as Price did the same, felling the others with practised ease.

"Soap, get Echo up."

Soap moved over to his chair, grabbed the back of it, and pulled him up. Taking his knife out of its sheathe, he slit the ropes open, letting Echo stand back up, relaxing his wrists. They were all looking at him as he picked up his weapons from where they'd been laid lazily in the corner of the room, and he looked at them, somewhat owlishly.

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

Price decided to ask, looking over the man. Echo looked down at himself, slightly confused at the question, before shrugging. He brushed away the drops of blood on his cheek, as it slowed in its bleeding, tested his shin, pleased to find that he could still walk on it, and nodded.

"I'm alright. Should we continue?"

With the time of the essence, there was no time for his wounds to be looked at, and he tried to urge them ahead with that fact. They were only minor, like that which you would receive at rugby, and while he was capable of ignoring it, he knew he had to convince them that he was fine. They all- Griggs included- looked at him analytically, and he reaffirmed that he was fine.

He had a visit to the campus psychologist in the future if everything went to plan, but he was fine. It took a while before they were finally moving again, although he could feel Soap's eyes on his back, watching them as they trod through the snow, the weight of the world on their shoulders. World domination was rarely a possibility or something that could actually happen in universes like these, but this was about as close as you could get.

The missiles, if launched, may not end the world in a 'there's no coming back from this, only a few hundred thousand people have survived' but it would end it in a way that Russia was the only world power left. Well, either that or weaken all of the other countries, making it easy for them to take over and rule as the overall power.

Which wasn't an option. They carefully walked up to the fence, light footsteps being left behind in the snow, as Price explained they needed to knock out the power so that the advancing team could go in. _A very covert operation, where everything is planned out to the letter. We all know the stakes, and there's no greater driving force._

"Gaz, Soap, plant the C4."

Between the two of them, the C4 planting took very little time. Two packs of C4 per each back clump of concrete that held the tower in place, and it was just about ready to fall like the Eiffel Tower. It sure looked a lot like it, if the person looking was short-sighted. For something that was cemented in the ground, fairly deeply too, the metal was fairly easy to warp and bend out of place- even snapping if the conditions were right.

The metal used to make the pylon was electricity-resistant, meaning you could touch it without getting electrocuted, but it wasn't heat resistant, meaning if you heated it up- well, it would be falling sometime soon. The rest of them backed away to a safe distance- getting crushed, or worse, bisected, by a pylon wasn't a fun experience, not at all. After double-checking each other's C4, they began to back away to where the rest of them were waiting, the detonator resting in Soap's hands.

The explosion that succeeded Price's order to blow it was small, and honestly, quite anti-climatic considering it was felling a huge pylon. The metal was blasted clean away as the pylon tottered like a drunken Scotsman, swaying, almost ready to fall. As it began to fall, what was left of the metal splintered and cracked beneath the weight, and finally, it fell. The black wires joining each pylon became tight, starting a chain reaction in which all the towers began to fall like dominoes.

"Charlie six, the tower's down and out. Twenty seconds until auxiliary power."

Price reported as they moved to the cliffside, the barbed fence stopping them from climbing over. There was a thick plume of smoke on the ground in front of the cliff, black and irritating, encompassing all of the surroundings fairly quickly, like a large-scale smokescreen.

_Copy Bravo Six. Breaching the perimeter now._

They waited with bated breath, and Echo knew all of them were counting down, including himself. The minutes ticked by slowly, anxiously. If they were alerted now to their presence, then the whole op was compromised- considering that they could launch the missiles long before they could get anywhere near. If that happened- it wasn't worth thinking about.

"Backup power coming online in ten seconds."

Griggs warned as they watched, waiting for their opening, the black cloud having not dispersed yet. The smog trickled by slowly, almost increasing in the width and breadth, and they could barely make out the complex in the background, around about five or so small cuboid buildings being out of the range of the smoke.

_Standby._

There was hesitation as ten suddenly lost its first digit, leaving Bravo 6 waiting for their opening. Which couldn't come soon enough, especially with the invisible countdown that was on their backs, reminding them that there was no time for failure, not right now. If now was a time for everything to go off without a hitch, it would be now.

Not just because the Guardian would like to not lose his life- because that was what Life and Death would do if he fucked up, and there was little to nothing he could do to change that decision- but because _James _didn't want everyone to suffer. Those at Credenhill, in Lockerbie, people he had memories of but had never truly met, Griggs, MacMillan.

Faces and names, people he knew and didn't know alike, swirled around his mind. His squad and squad-to-be: Price, Gaz, Soap, Nikolai, Ghost, Roach, Meat, Archer. So many people who might not make it if they failed. _That _was his motivation. Not Life and Death's meddling. Like in a superhero movie or comic book, there were people that were relying on him, and that was what spurred him on.

_We're through. We'll wait for you at the rally point Bravo Six. Charlie Out._

"Roger. We're on our way. Out."

They pulled away from the cliffside, dropping to a low crouch as they made their way across the snowy ground. There was a fence that was made of thick iron links, the large gate locked and bound together. Good thing that they didn't need the gate to be in one piece.

"Get that fence open!"

Gaz crouched at the gate, before pulling out a can of a spray like substance which would corrode the iron, making it much weaker. He then curled his fingers around a couple of the loops, before pulling it away, the chunk coming out cleanly. At Price's encouragement, Gaz took point as they crept through the gate, scanning for potential enemies.

"Enemy helicopters!"

Gaz murmured quietly, as they all dove for cover, taking advantage of the large shrubs scattering the ground. Once it flew overhead, they continued forwards, at a low crouch, tense and ready for action. It didn't take them long to come across a base. This one was not as defensible if you ignored the fence surrounding it.

The concrete walls were leaning forwards and backwards, leaving gaps that you could get a missile through, let alone a human body, and there were larger gaps throughout as well. The wire mesh at the top was more for show than anything- it was weak and flimsy, and wouldn't even stop a bird.

"Gaz, take Soap and Echo and scout through this base. Griggs and I will look for another route."

With a nod, the three of them entered through the gap in the concrete wall, a grimace on their on all of their faces. They followed behind Gaz's lead, the stress following behind them cruelly, and for the first time in a long time, like many other things, the consequences of failure was stacked high upon his back, and he knew how difficult it was going to be. It was a good thing that he was a good friend of adversity.

* * *

_Author's Note_

Stay safe, and I wish you all the best.

~Cait


	18. Chapter 16 - Warzone

_"Come you, masters of war,_  
_You that build all the guns_  
_You that build the death planes_  
_You that build the big bombs_

_You that hide behind walls_  
_You that hide behind desks_  
_I just want you to know I can see through your masks."_

_~Bob Dylan_

* * *

["Ultimatum"]

[Day 36 - 13:42:19]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

If they were beginning to get bored with the sneaking around, then the gunfight was a nice change of pace. Nice in the way that you were no longer bored, but the downside is you were being shot at. They were ducked behind some cars, dented and fractured as bullets pinged off of them. He sprung up from the red vehicle they were sheltering behind and fired three bullets into the head of the first enemy.

There was a blood-red mist covering the air as the bullets landed, and the enemy had no chance to even scream or yell as he slumped to the ground dead. He ducked back behind the red car as Soap sprung up, doing the same to one of the others.

"Well, I was getting bored."

Soap remarked in his thick accent, sounding somewhat amused despite the situation. He shrugged, ducking back down as bullets whizzed overhead. Echo rolled his eyes, as the enemies retreated back, into another small clearing filled with cars. Gaz moved forwards, ducking behind what looked to be an exploded Rover, the green car looking extremely dented and undrivable. Retrieving a flashbang from his side, he quickly threw it overarm to the small building ahead of them, tilting his head away as the bright light surged, blinding the enemies like it was supposed to.

"I kin imagine. Although, I'm still annoyed tha these guys called me American."

It was amazing that you could have such a light-hearted conversation in the middle of an active warzone. Soap cracked a smile that quickly downturned as he dove into the cover that was further forwards, Echo moving into position and covering him. They returned fire, pushing them further and further back, until they entered a final open area, where three of their men were on the building opposite, providing sniper support.

The battlefield- well, the car park, but the battlefield was rather apt at the moment- was filled with the loud _pop pop pops _of gunfire, the clicking of mags being ejected, and the absent sound of explosions, though that last sound was much more obscure than the others. Off to his left, in a small wooden house, there were a few more people emerging, guns in front of them, aiming at their heads.

"Grenade!"

Gaz called out as he and Soap dove out of the way of the blast radius, not eager to lose any limbs right now. A few seconds passed, before the explosion went up, kicking out several dust clouds and plumes of dirt. The gunfire continued nonplussed, as each side sent volley after volley of gunfire at one another. Creeping around the base was a slow and dull affair, the sounds of gunfire never seemingly stopping.

Still, it was merciful that there had been no cries of 'I'm hit.' over the comms from any of the other squads. Which was good, because it meant they had more gunpower at the minute. That stayed true, only further proven by the fact that they were having to drop off more reinforcements as they went longer and longer in the gunfight. Someone had brought one down- who it was, Echo didn't know- but the chassis was a hunk of burning metal in the centre of the small clearing.

Burning flesh and screams were barely audible over the sounds, and the metal warped and bent under the intense heat. Despite it all, there was a curl of hands on the outside of the helicopter, which quickly shook and then stilled as it became welded to the touch. The smell was acrid and horrible, and the smell of gunpowder quickly became preferable.

"How many more are there?"

Soap growled out, returning fire from his new position behind a doorframe. Echo ejected his clip and reloaded it, his face fixed in a narrow frown as he continued to shoot, his hands calloused with burns from both gunpowder and leather alike. They pushed forward stubbornly, despite the wave after wave of enemies trying to push them back. As Gaz fired what seemed to be the last volley of bullets, there was a lapse of silence, peaceful in its intent. They slumped back a little, enjoying the small amounts of reprieve.

It wouldn't last- it never would- but for the short time they were allowed it, he would savour it. Of course, they made the most of their time, the break as short as it could be. They checked clips, checked wounds, checked their weapons. Nobody was seriously injured, and most of them just needed a bit of field first-aid. Soap had copped a shot to the lower leg, where a bullet had made it through the wooden doorframe.

In hindsight, it wasn't the best place to duck and cover. Gaz had a shy bullet to his abdomen, bleeding sluggishly but not a serious wound. Echo himself had gotten away with a few grazes and gashes, where he'd been cut after he'd thrown himself to the ground trying to escape various bomb blasts. The fact he'd not been shot wasn't because he'd been actively avoiding them, but because he'd been fairly lucky.

_Luck. Not something associated with my name. Or rather, me in general. _He shook his head slightly to clear the thoughts. They were uncommon to him, and he pushed them away with great prejudice.

_Bravo Six, be advised, three trucks packed with shooters are headed your way._

With a brisk nod, they all jumped back into action, getting ready to head down into the road, where the nuclear base was waiting. The whirring sound of a siren was barely audible in the background, and it didn't take a genius to realise that they were rapidly running out of time. And sure enough, a few seconds later, three trucks trundled along, the one at the front having a mini-gun that was going to tear through anyone who so much as got a singular bullet.

And so, for the god knows how many time, they found themselves covering, the sound of bullets smacking against the concrete walls viciously. There was one good thing about trucks and mounted miniguns, as Soap so clearly demonstrated: they didn't like grenade launchers. The trucks went up one after another, increasing in how high they went. The plumes thickened, and the fire snaked out and grasped around the trucks, running across the pool of petrol, licking and lapping at the fuel.

The sound of slamming doors didn't escape his notice as they quickly fled the vehicles before they went up in flames. Echo returned a few more volleys of bullets, before slumping back against the car he was using as a cover, adrenaline running high, and his muscles straining. The mental concentration required was both stressful and taxing at the same time, and Echo was looking forwards to a long sleep after this.

They had gotten out into the road, snow trails covering it, tire tracks going up and down the path. They were still none the worse for wear, and minus the extra scrapes and burns, they were as well as can be. Well… apart from the sound of something cutting through the air. They all looked up, on cue, like something that was out of a movie, and saw the large missile cutting through the air swiftly, the stream of burning fuel following behind it, a rumbling reverberating around gracelessly.

"What in tha bloody hell is that?!"

"Nothing good."

Echo remarked quietly, as per usual, staring up at the sky with a sense of helplessness, despite knowing he could have done very little to prevent this. _There's the one… where's the other one? _He almost missed Price reporting quickly back to command, in favour of looking up at the sky with the others. A few seconds later, followed by a sharp curse from Gaz, and there was nuclear missile number two, following after its brethren closely.

_Bravo Six, we're working on getting the abort codes from the Russians. Get into that base and stop any further launches._

As they all broke into a desperate sprint to get to their location, another missile went up, much to all of their horrors. _I wasn't anticipating this. _Echo thought as they allowed the new missile to surprise them, before resuming with iron-like faces. They cracked their knuckles and headed down to the base, their other squads flanking them. _Three __missiles__? _

He couldn't exactly check his book- not his journal, the _book- _in the middle of an active war-zone without getting some extremely weird that, and getting shot a couple of times due to inattention.

"Come on- let's go!"

* * *

["All In"]

[Day 36 - 15:22:01]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

Do you know what is bad? One missile. Want to know what's even worse? _Three. _And, with the timelimit- which they didn't even have in exact numbers, it was a '_we haven't calculated it yet but hurry the fuck up because you don't have much time.' _Soap was a simple man, he liked a mission set out in specific terms, and when it came to time-sensitive missions, he tended to _like _his time-frames. It helped him plan it out, and other things like that.

So when there were three missiles, that had an estimated causality list of 41,096, 749 million- because of course, they had time to calculate _that _number- and they had no idea how long they had to actually stop the nuclear warheads from hitting the US. Sure, the Yanks stole some of their place names: York, Norfolk and Hartford to name a few- but they didn't deserve nuclear warheads for that crime.

Their allies in arms were already having a hard enough time defending the homefront, they most definitely didn't need warheads to be added into the mix. Especially with how it could have a knock-on effect for the rest of the world. The knock-on effect would be severe, and with the US being one of the largest world powers, if they were removed from the equation, it wouldn't be a good thing.

"Do we have an ETA for the warheads?"

Griggs barked out to the scientists on his end. There was some brief stuttering as he pressed the tech-whizzes over in Wisconsin for answers, answers that Griggs himself wasn't getting. There was a fleeting expression of annoyance before they all got distracted again, this time by incoming trucks along the path, stacked up with various resources.

They pressed themselves down to the ground, the snow seeping into their clothes like an invasive force of its own, sending more shivers down their spines. As Griggs waited for more answers, there was a quiet observation by Echo, who had stress written all over his face.

"They're moving oot."

The accent was muted, dull almost. He didn't sound like the unflappable Echo, instead, he sounded just as stressed as the rest of them. His voice was strained, his words short and clipped, and his grip on his gun was tight. His breathing wasn't overly erratic, but there was still a strain to it that he'd not heard before. Soap nodded in agreement as they could hear Griggs on the other end of the conversation.

"What do you mean, _probably? _I need it confirmed dammit."

The conversation ceased with an abrupt hiss, the call disconnecting. Soap would take a probably to no time frame at all, and said as much to Griggs, who simply crossed his arms. They continued at a bustling pace down the snowy paths, shaking off snowflakes and water alike, and every so often dodging out of the way of the enemies. A full-frontal assault without the adequate firepower would be suicide, which is why they were attacking from the side, using as much as stealth as they could.

"How long do you think we have until they reach their targets?"

Price asked in that commanding tone of his, leaving Griggs no room for anything else. He sighed as they breached the perimeter backed by their sniper teams, before giving them a rough estimate: and that estimate wasn't good.

"Fifteen minutes. Could be less, could be more- they haven't figured it out yet."

Instead of groaning or complaining like the rest of them wanted too, Price tried to have some form of optimism that wasn't demeaning or downright too optimistic. Yes, you could be too optimistic- if he was going to say 'well, at least it's not the whole world' then that would be far too optimistic. Because any part of the world was bad enough, regardless of whether it was the US, UK, or bloody Australia.

"I've had narrower margins."

He made some hand-gestures, telling them to be prepared to enter the complex. They bunched up on the outside, waiting for Price's go ahead. And Price was waiting for the second sniper team, who were observing the base so they didn't walk straight into a missile. As they waited, the timer in his head slowly trickled down, second by second, going down far too fast for Soap's liking.

_There are hostiles and light armour coming t'you from the north. Politely suggesting you get some C4 out there or get a hold of some heavy weapons._

"Eyes sharp, and stay behind the containers. Do _not _get in the BMP's line of sight."

They stuck to the sides of the containers like glue, bullets ricocheting and clattering against the metal plating. The thing was, it was difficult to stay out of the BMP's line of sight when it was rolling against the ground and heading straight for the grey container they were huddled behind. Echo, who had pressed himself right next to Soap's side, eyed the BMP, then Soap, and then his pocket.

There was something calculating in his gaze like he was doing mental logistics before he hummed in a way that made Soap instantly on edge.

"Have you got smoke?"

He asked him, and Soap narrowed his eyes, nodding ever so slightly with an inclination of his head. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to like this: but it was unlike Echo to be reckless. He thought everything through to the letter in a meticulous fashion. He pulled out the cylindrical object that was grey, showing it to Echo as the man in question popped his head around, picking off a few enemies that were out of the reach of the sniper team.

"Throw it when I ask?"

It would have gone down as insubordination had it been anyone else to anyone else. But Echo had always had good plans that had worked- he had a knack for it, it seemed- and Soap was inclined to trust his judgement, especially when they were pinned down. Still, Soap nodded, and they swapped places so that Echo was in a more prime position.

"Go."

The word was sharp but wasn't yelled. Unpinning it, he sent the smoke grenade skittering underneath the front wheels of the BMP, erupting in a cloud of smoke. Before he could ask what the next part of the plan was- which was something he really should have done before he agreed to the plan- Echo was gone from his position.

Soap bit his tongue, stopping himself from calling out, and could vaguely make out the form of Echo, darting around the BMP and placing several small packages- C4- on the BMP. Within a minute or two, the smoke cleared, thinning out considerably, but Echo did not reemerge. The BMP went up in a large blast, heat spreading outwards, surging against Soap's face uncomfortably. As Soap looked around worriedly, worried about where Echo had gotten to before the BMP blew up, he called out his squadmates' name over the comm.

"_Echo!"_

* * *

Author's Note

Hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for the reviews!

~Cait


	19. Chapter 17 - Infiltrate and Exfiltrate

_"We all wear masks, and the time comes when we cannot remove them without removing some of our own skin."_

_~Andre Berthiaume_

* * *

["All In"]

[Day 36 - 15:23:12]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

The lapse of silence that followed the destruction of the first BMP- and yes, the _first _BMP, there were a few more, much to his chagrin- was one that caused severe anxiety amongst the squad. Even Gaz and Price were rattled, waiting for some news, some notification, that the man himself was alright. While the C4 he had used was operated by a remote device, it didn't take a demolitions expert to figure out they were highly volatile.

And one well-placed bullet would set off the explosion just as easily as a detonator could. And the question was: had Echo set off the C4 himself, or had it been set off by a rogue bullet? Was Echo sitting somewhere, slumped against a container, burned and dying because of the caustic elements? Soap looked around, firing indiscriminately at the enemies, ducking as sniper fire roared overhead, screaming and finding homes in the hostiles' heads.

There was no time for peace in the battlefield, and the enemies would not care if his squadmate was dead or injured. If anything, they would be celebrating the fact. The fact that Echo had not answered a direct call was concerning, and Soap wanted nothing more than to go and find him, but he knew that wasn't possible right now.

Not without getting shredded to a million pieces by the BMP's, because Sniper Team Two just _had _to inform that not only were there more than one of the BMP's but that they had no sight of Echo, having lost him in the scuffle. _No man left behind, but it's difficult to get to him when we're pinned down. _He returned fire as he heard a rocket fire, the telltale whirring a dead giveaway.

As he turned his head towards the noise, looking at the area where it was roughly coming from, he briefly saw a tuft of brown hair pop up from beneath a wall. There were a few minutes, where the rest of them worked to thin out the troops of enemies, and the figure popped back up, firing another rocket which skirted to the edge, narrowly missing the BMP thanks to evasive manoeuvres.

_...Price? Soap? Anyone?_

Soap would recognise that accent anywhere, reminding him of _home. _It was Echo, and he sounded none the worse for wear, or at least he hoped so. _It's hard to tell from this distance, and if there's anything I know about Echo, it's that the stubborn lad doesn't like admitting to injuries. Still, the fact that he is speaking and able to fire an RPG is good enough for me at the minute._

_We copy Echo. Are you our friend on the roof?_

_Yes sir. The shockwave of the blast knocked out my comms. _

That explained the unusual- well, it wasn't unusual, what_ was_ unusual was the lack of response- the silence of the man. It also explained why Echo hadn't seemed to respond to Soap's admittedly frantic call over the comms. Still, don't blame him, he was worried about his squadmate and fellow Scot damn it. There was another, more comfortable, the lapse of silence this time, as they moved forwards, with the way now cleared by Sniper Team Two and Echo's combined efforts.

Another explosion, loud and piercing, like he had been standing next to a grenade when it went off, signified the end of another BMP, by Echo's hand yet again. There was a grunt audible over the comms, along with a clattering sound that sounded distinctly like someone throwing something heavy on the floor: metal against concrete.

_I'm out of ammo. I'm going to circle around for another RPG._

_Take Gaz with you Echo. Don't go alone. Soap, group on me with Griggs. Sniper Team Two, clear Soap's path to us, and cover Gaz as he gets to Echo._

There was _another _silence over the comms before a quiet confirmation of the order came over the comms. A reluctant acceptance, but not altogether denied.

_Copy. I will wait for him at the bottom of my perch._

Soap meanwhile began to creep towards where Price and Griggs were, peeking around the edge of the container as he tried to work out where the hostiles were, and if he was about to get a bullet to the ribs, or worse, the head. Neither was preferable, considering both could be deadly- well, technically one wasn't deadly. He'd be dead before he could even acknowledge that he'd been shot.

And well, there were too many delicate places surrounding the ribs. He quickly bridged the gaps, creeping forwards, bullets whirring past him, skimming his skin, drawing lines of blood. He bit at his lip, masking the grimace of pain, slowly approaching where Price and Griggs were. Price, though he didn't evidently show it, turned his head ever so slightly, acknowledging his crawl and abeyance of orders.

He paced forwards slowly, wiping away a bead of blood with the back of his hand, before returning his steadfast grip on his weapon. He could see Gaz disappearing, his shadow draping on the floor, as he disappeared from everyone's view. He froze, hairs raising, adrenaline flooding through him, watching as bullets tore through where his head had been a few minutes prior.

_Keep your head on Soap. You'll be doing naebody ahny favours if you get shot. _The bullets embedded themselves in the concrete wall behind the Bravo Team, and Soap swivelled sharply on his ankles, ducking behind the cover yet again.

_You're clear Soap. I've got you in my sights._

That sounded like the newest member of the assembled Sniper Team. Archer, they called him. An eye as sharp as a knife, and attention to detail like no other. Hand chosen for duty by MacMillan, it was his first proper foray into the field. But the kid was _good. _Soap had helped with the selection duty- he, Price, and Gaz had sat around the files, specially picking out the sniper squads, not unlike how they selected Echo for their squad.

Normally, a newbie like Archer would never have been selected for a precarious mission like this. But not only had the kid gotten an extensive resume, had been specifically recommended for this mission, but he'd been one of the limited options. Considering they were in Russia, there was no time to fly in a squad from the United Kingdom, United States of America, or one of the scattered SAS bases.

There were enough bases near the Altay Mountains that they could assemble a decent squad. Perhaps not as experienced as they would like, but a decent squad nonetheless. Without questioning the order, and trusting Archer, he ducked behind another container, finally getting to where Griggs was.

"Nice to see you, Scottie."

Soap rolled his eyes before they all ducked on instinct, another rocket-firing above them. The chatter was cut off, as they quickly filed behind Price, spreading out and adjusting their positions. _Is it Echo and Gaz?_ His answer was given to him quickly after, as they fanned out, the invisible clock ticking like a pendulum above them, pushing further and further to their destination. It was odd how bullets seemed inconsequential to the looming warheads overhead, but there would be no stopping them if he ended up getting shot.

_That's another BMP down. Clear to progress forwards, sir._

That was Gaz's tone, confirming that the rocket had been fired by him. They inched forwards, step by step, bullet spray by bullet spray, relying on Echo and Gaz to clear out the BMP's. He didn't let the anxiety beat him down again, and for once, he didn't focus on the time pressure- it would only set him up for failure. Be aware of it? Yes. Focus heavily on it? _No._

* * *

["All In"]

[Day 36 - 15:27:41]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

He was crouched down on another perch he'd found, the RPG settled awkwardly on his shoulder, bracing the heavyweight that threatened to tip him over. Though he could make out where one part of the Sniper Team was, he didn't make direct eye contact, instead focusing on the BMP's rumbling around with a bone-crushing force. Gaz had loaned the use of Echo's rifle, which he'd taken in preparation for… certain events. Whether he'd get to use it or not was still up in the air, even if he'd planned as meticulously as he could. If Gaz had questions why Echo had taken a rifle, he didn't voice them, instead covering Echo and assisting the Sniper Teams.

Which was a blessing, because, with the amount of concentration that Echo was placing on himself, he wouldn't have come up with a very cohesive lie. The weight heavily pushed down on his shoulders, as he scanned, looking for the other BMPs. Beneath him, looking small from his perch on the tower, he could see Soap, Gaz and Price moved forward in a sweeping motion, covering one another's back, each one looking like they would take a bullet for the other.

And while Echo himself felt like that too, willing to do anything to protect what he deemed as _his _squad, he knew that he would never truly belong. How could he, when he wasn't like them? He wasn't born of flesh and blood, didn't have parents, couldn't even say he'd passed the selection, because he hadn't. It was all a lie, an intricately weaved background, which he hadn't taken part in, had nothing to do with.

All it had taken was one person to bring to the front how cruel Echo's- no, the Guardian's- fate was, and how he wasn't a person. He had no sense of self, nothing that belonged to him, not in the slightest. It was something borrowed, something stolen, something _created. _And that was why he would never belong: he wasn't like them, and there was nothing that could change that.

Especially with how if Life and Death even caught a whiff or hint of how he was thinking, he would be terminated almost immediately. In fact, there would be no _almost _about it. He would be gone faster then he could click his fingers. And nobody would be any the wiser: he would simply be replaced by a more concrete Guardian, one twisted and made without the 'imperfections' that his character carried. Because in the end, wasn't that all he was?

A character, to be used and changed as needed. The other half of Bravo Team were about to walk into an open space, where a BMP had its muzzle aimed, bullets whirring inside of the chamber, ready to shred whoever was going to come into contact with it.

_Sir, hold your positions. BMP at 9 o'clock, two clicks. _

Gaz reported, having seen the same thing. Echo quickly adjusted his aim, knowing there was no time to lose: not in this scenario. The miss earlier had actually been an accident, and not intentional. While it showed that he wasn't infallible, it was more evidence that could be used against him later; regardless of whether it was by Bravo Team, or Life and Death.

Gritting his teeth, form tense, he pressed the trigger with heavy resistance, a rocket erupting out of the end, heading straight for the BMP yet again, in a mirror of a shot he'd made earlier. _Soon the warheads will be out of commission. And soon comes the true test: can I keep everyone alive?_

* * *

Author's Note

Thank you for all of the support, and stay safe!

~Cait


	20. Chapter 18 - No Fighting In The War Room

_"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."_

_~Sun Tzu_

* * *

["No Fighting In the War Room"]

[Day 36 - 15:34:28]

[Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

"You tell us this_ now?"_

There was a reason why Griggs was annoyed. It wasn't that they'd had particular details hidden from them. It wasn't even that he'd found out about half of his squad being wiped out- not that they had, not yet at least. It wasn't even that they were in the crappy situation that they were in currently because they were all disciplined enough not to curse out to the chain of command.

No, what had really pissed the American Marine off was the fifteen-minute countdown they'd only just gotten. They'd been at the base, inside it, for all of fifteen seconds, for them to finally get that ETA they had been asking for, and it wasn't a favourable one.

Not that Echo had been expecting a three-day deadline, or heaven forbid, an hour, but he'd been hoping it would be a little longer then what they ended up getting. Still, he could work with it: it would be tight, but he'd done it before. Well, he could only do it if they started to move, instead of berating the poor techies on the other line.

"Griggs- come _on."_

Echo urged a hint of annoyance and impatience settling in his tone, something that he hadn't meant to inject into his words. _The more time we spend here yelling at techies is the less time we'll have to make an actual difference. _Were the words left unsaid, as they got into a sweeping motion, Price taking point.

The corridors were long, connected to many off-shooting paths, where they could easily get jumped if they weren't careful. That's why, they _weren't _taking that death-trap of corridors: no, they had prime access to the ventilation system, which happened to fit several fully grown men.

Funny that. As long as they were quiet and light-footed, there was little chance of being seen before they were ready to. Still, they_ would_ get caught if Griggs kept snapping at the poor tech geeks, because the Yanks voice stood out for miles, and bounced around the ventilation system like a hyperactive child who had too much sugar.

The comms crackled to life as Griggs finally decided to fall back into order, Team Two reporting that they were heading to the security base. The third team joined the echo, approaching from the third entrance, essentially boxing everyone in. There was a specific reason they were entering in the way they were: they were the closest to the launch control, which was their only chance at nuking the warheads before they hit the home-front.

With the location of the third missile now being shown as the northern US and the chance for more, they needed to get them disarmed _before _they struck. _If they strike… the US will never recover. We all know this- and we are ready to make sure it doesn't come to pass._

"_Bravo Team, we got some news. Launch control is less than half a click away, southwest of your current position. That's where you need to go to upload the abort codes- which we don't have from the Ruskies at the minute."_

Price nodded, looking at Gaz analytically. There was no telling of the stress the Captain was no doubt under, and he didn't seem alarmed at all at both the time limit or the chance for failure. In fact, he looked as calm as if it was just a casual training exercise.

"Gaz, go join the Yanks. Take Griggs with you. Me, Echo and Soap will go and breach launch control- you're our eyes and ears."

And so, they split up. Echo remembered the first time he'd done this routine: when he'd still been wet around the ears. His character back then… one _Scott 'Keene' Shane… _had been similar to that of James Gibben, but different at the same time: wet around the ears, outspoken, evasive of the past.

Hotheaded yet warm-hearted, wanting the best but prone to outbursts of anger occasionally, something he used to channel his own ambitions. That was why he was an explosives specialist, compared to James Gibben's CQC and Weaponry specialism. When he'd been more robotic in nature, more chained down, he'd learned what some could call 'life lessons' from Price, ones that he understood more now.

* * *

[_A Previous Lifetime]_

_[__Prague__, __Czech Republic__]_

_[Sgt. Scott 'Keene' Shane__]_

Keene was brooding at the Spire, the memorial grounds for those who had died. It was not long after Ghost and Roach had died, and he was feeling hollow within. _Should I be feeling like this? This is not my first death, nor my first life, nor my first excursion, __and I feel hollow. Like I am missing something. I am likely to have many more after this since it is my whole purpose, but I feel broken almost. _

_Everything in me is telling me to carry on, fight, ignore this and continue, but there is a little part of me that is telling me that this is wrong. But that part of me leads to this conflict: what do I follow. My instincts or the tiny fragment that is seemingly human? What am I, if not the Guardian? Is there any point to the role I play?_

"I thought you might be here. Hot-headed as you may be, constantly clashing heads with the others, I knew you appreciated them more then you let on."

Price crossed his arms, approaching from behind, the shadows almost recoiling at his mere presence. Keene didn't pay much attention to his captain, preferring to stare at the embossed names on the Spire. Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Gary 'Roach' Sanderson. Griggs was absent, only because he was American forces and not British forces.

Each name had been carefully stencilled in, including their ranks, and their last mission. All of the men on there were loyal to their country and had died doing what they did best: defending the Queen and County. That hollow feeling rose up to his chest, strangling him almost. _Perhaps Price is right- I miss them because I knew them. It's just a shame they didn't know the real me._

"I would be willing to bet that Ghost would kick yer arse if he saw ye moping like this."

He ignored Price yet again, looking at the mortally wounded Soap, unconscious on the makeshift operating table. His blood was pooling around him, and his body was wrapped in bandages. Scars littered his form, his skin pale and sickly. Eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling, his hair flattened to his head with a mixture of sweat and blood. The Union Jack was barely visible underneath the deluge of blood, as was the Sgt. MacTavish.

"It's hard to think about that when all our teammates seem to die or are about to."

He gestured at Soap's form, raging burns littered all over his barely visible skin. Angry welts that looked irritated, Soap's face twisted like he was trapped in an ever-lasting torment. Despite everything: his walls, his resistance to getting close, they wormed their way in like it was nothing.

And that would not only make the pain of leaving worse, but it was like a physical blow whenever their health deteriorated. It ate and festered at him, and Keene knew that if Life and Death were to catch wind of his emotions, he would be eliminated faster then he could say, Sergeant.

"Part of the job Keene. If you just live in fear of what is going to happen, you'll never move forwards. You'll be stuck in a limbo that you can't escape: and that limbo _will _get people killed."

He gnawed on his lip, refusing to admit to anything. To feel like he was… that was dangerous. He wasn't _supposed _to form an attachment like this. He wasn't supposed to bond like a… like a _normal _human being, a normal squadmate. That had never been in the cards, had never been an option.

_Who would want to know someone based on a mass of lies? Where does the character of Keene begin, and the Guardian end? _Price nudged him again, drawing his attention from the bloodied form of Soap. He growled within his throat, pulling away from both Price's grip and the cold attachment he felt to Soap.

"That may be so, but they seem to be getting killed anyway."

* * *

Echo snapped back to his thoughts, the Russian chills creeping down his back like they were creeping through the base. Each chill was stabbing, almost a mockery of their footsteps as they crept, anxious and wary, alert and panicked as the time beat down on them, suffocating him underneath the heavy air. The memories from the past, past iterations of themselves, swirled around in an imaginary vortex, the cold combining to make one lethal combination.

Words and phrases replaced bullets and grenades, and Echo was in a semi-delirious state. _Sins of the fathers… more likely sins of the Guardian. How many did I let die because it was simply told what I was going to do? I can't be considered a good person, after all, I've done. _Closing his eyes, he could see the various forms he'd taken, overbearing like parents, lingering memories of a time he'd rather not remember.

Males, females, werewolves, vampires. You name any creature, and it was likely he'd been it at some point. He'd had every eye colour under the sun, every hair colour too. He'd had so many different appearances that he never truly shed one- they all clung to him like dirt. Words lingered, lashing at his skin, causing more pain and trauma then any torture or gunshots could.

_You must make sure that everything runs smoothly: make sure that those who are destined to die, die. Do not intervene._

_Sometimes people die. It's not about what we did before it, but how we deal with it after._

_There is always uncertainty in war. The only certainty comes when the war ends, and even then, the cycle will begin anew. _

"Come on Echo- the time isn't our friend here."

If Price or Soap had noticed his inner turmoil and midlife crisis, neither of them had commented on it. Honestly, Echo preferred it. It allowed him to push it aside, and instead focus on the fact that they _needed _to stop those damn warheads. He nodded his head stiffly, forcing the mask on his face as it had never left in the first place, and crept through the ventilation system, each footstep silent, pacing along with the thin metal like it was ice.

One false move, one misstep, and the whole thing could cave in underneath them, ruining their chance for stealth, but also compromising their mission. There was no chatter amongst the teams as they each made their way to the destination, partially because every mere word spoken would echo along the ventilation shaft, making it more likely to be heard by those they were trying to stop.

_Captain Price, Two-Yankee-Six reporting in. We're meeting with heavy resistance in the south wing, with our access point locked down, over._

Silently, like ghosts, they jumped down into the main corridor, making their way to where they needed to go. Price replied over the radio as they swept through, checking every corner and every crevice, moving as if they were shadows, clinging from wall to wall, shrinking away from the light. It was a miracle that more soldiers in their older ages didn't end up with severe debilitating back problems, with the amount of time some of them spent hunched over.

"Roger Yankee-Six. Regroup with Team Two, and help them with the base security."

_Roger that sir. Yankee out._

The corridors looked almost unending, continuously leading into another that looked the exact same. There was only so much merging of the colour grey that someone could keep track of before their alert level dropped slightly, no matter how hard, or how hyper-focused they were. Eventually, they ended up in a different kind of corridor: one with white bricks along the bottom.

They passed lockers that were dented, TV's that had warning signs on them, crackly static burning throughout the room, before making their way into a mainline corridor. It had an arched roof, along with slated floors, dim lights attempting to light up the room, which it didn't do very well.

_Price, this is Overwatch. We're uploading the abort codes from the Russians now: and your counter has ticked down to eleven minutes, so get your arses to the control centre quickly._

"Copy."

Was all that Price managed to say before they were forced back behind cover, nearly being hit by a spray of bullets. There was a snarl of _'you bastards' _from Price, as Echo looked over to him instinctively- and judging by the blood running down his arm- and coupled with the blood and dirt over his face, Price was pulling an accurate Rambo cosplay- he'd been hit by either a bullet or shrapnel, both as likely as the other when it came to the close-quarters combat.

The Russians had no qualms about _danger close _and were quite happy to roll grenades across the floor, one ft away from their own persons, and Echo's head was pounding between the strobe lights that came with the warning sirens and the flashbangs that came every few minutes. They just seemed to be pulling them out from nowhere!

"We don't have the time to wait for them to thin out! Keep pushing them back and use grenades and flashbangs to keep them away! Watch out for danger close!"

Shephard may not believe in danger close, but Echo was not about to maim or kill one of his teammates because he threw a grenade too hastily. Not only would that be the greatest act of insubordination that the SAS had ever known, but it was also a pretty scumbaggy thing to do. Tensing, he swung his rifle up to a Tango, pressing the trigger without hesitation.

The bullets tore through the hostile with ease, puncturing arteries and organs alike, leading them to collapse in a heap, dead. They pushed and pushed, forcing the hostiles to drop further and further back into a more defensible position. The clock ticked and chimed around them all, giving them far more grievance and pain then they needed.

They pushed into the cafeteria, which looked like one of the warheads that they'd been trying to stop had hit it. Cracked tiles littering the floors, tables upturned, shell-casing scattered across the floors. Pools of blood appeared here and there, plumes of smoke clouds rolling over the room with ease.

"Pha's our time turning out to be?"

There was a lapse in silence, from both the gunfight and between the three of them. Soap sent a grenade to the back-right corner, as Price glanced at his watch, chipped slightly, ducked behind cover, bullets soaring around them. Looking left, and then right, Echo vaulted the fallen table he'd been sheltering behind, and slid so that he was ducked beneath that of a fallen locker.

"Nine minutes thirty. We gotta get moving."

Echo growled in agreement, nodding at Price and returning fire. _We have nine minutes to stop the warheads, and less then an hour until things go sideways. It's a shame I don't have the power to __control__ time: I could've done with it on this occasion._

* * *

Author's Note

Stay safe and well!

~Cait


	21. Chapter 19 - A Race, Stress, and Duress

_A failure is not always a mistake. It may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying._

_~B.F. Skinner_

* * *

["No Fighting In The War Room"]

[Day 36 - 15:34:28]

[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

"Can't this open any faster Gaz?"

Price asked their man, as they stood dawdling outside the door, which was opening at a snail's pace. It was made of thick metal, probably built to survive a bomb blast. And it probably was in all honesty: if the Russian's wanted to blow the ever-loving shit out of a country, they wouldn't want to be interrupted mid nuke order.

The doors were defensible, and you would need a heavy-duty explosive to even hope of making a dent. Regular C4 wouldn't make the cut: wouldn't even make much of a dent in it.

_No sir. But you can pull on it if it makes you feel better._

Price rolled his eyes, staring at the door, rifle draped across his body. Echo was eyeing the corridor in front of them warily, in case some hostiles approached them. They'd littered it- at Echo's suggestion- with claymores and various other traps, in case they had to make a hasty exit.

They'd shot out the lights- the few that had survived the initial gunfight anyway- and had hidden the traps the best they could. Speaking of Echo, the man was solemn almost. Every step was hesitant, instead of the steadfast sure-footedness that they could be associated with him. There was cool confidence surrounding the man, and even when he'd been injured during the clusterfuck of a mission, he'd never acted like this.

It was as if his confidence had been knocked down several pegs, of which he was showing as clear as white on a black canvas. Well. Maybe it wasn't quite that obvious. There was no bouncing from foot to foot, or nervous tremors or anything. But he'd gone from an already observant person to one who was even more observant, wary to where he would scan the floor three times over before making a step.

It wasn't that Soap couldn't understand the man's unease- warheads towards any country was enough to make someone increasingly nervous. It didn't _have _to be their home country to cause alarm. And considering that Echo was a lieutenant, relatively new to the high-stakes nature of the missions: well, then if Soap was in his boots, he'd be absolutely shitting himself. Granted, Soap wasn't exactly relaxing in a beer garden in the back of dodgy Glasgow pub either, which only went on to further the statement that you could _never _get used to SAS work, could never get complacent.

"Cheeky bastard."

The door was going slowly, which only served to ramp up the nerves in the room. For every inch the door opened, five seconds went by. And those five seconds added up quickly considering the width of the door. They didn't need the door fully opened, just enough for the three of them to slide through: and the minute that there was a large enough gap for that, they did, quickly folding to the wall to avoid the spray of bullets that soon followed.

Soap pulled down his NV goggles, his surroundings flaring with a bright green colour, allowing him to see easier. The hostiles shone brightly, furiously, easy targets for even the worst shooters. Bullets were flying crazily, metal clanging, ricochets happening left right and centre. Consoles with glowing orange lights were pulsing throughout the room, a reminder that if they damaged one that happened to be the centre console… well, that wouldn't turn out good for them.

They continued to push forwards, trying to get to the control centre through the spaghetti junction of corridors and pathways, the only difference being the number of hostiles in each route. Bullets and grenades were growing thin on both sides, each trying to defend/attack their respective sides. _Come on… I don't want to know what's going to happen if the warheads hit._

* * *

["No Fighting In The War Room"]

[Day 36 - 15:36:09]

[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

"Soap, upload the abort codes! Echo, watch our backs!"

Soap hastily took his position at their target, sweat pouring down his face at the realisation that they indeed had very little time to stop this missile launch. Specifically, they had three minutes to get the damn things uploaded, before half of the USA was wiped away. The keyboard wasn't like the standard keyboard, making it fairly confusing to understand: he could read it, but muscle memory kept fighting him on what key was where.

Still, they scrambled for their positions, as Soap took a second to analyse the keyboard, before quickly typing in the abort codes that _had to be correct __goddammit. _The sirens blared around them to their own chorus, alarming and sharp, driving drills into the tense men. Above the keyboard, there was a nautical map, showing the world, along with various coordinates. Soap was no privateer or anything like that, but he knew a map and locations when he saw one- it helped that they were helpfully marked with bright markers, subtitled in Russian.

_The United Kingdom. The United States of America. Canada. European Union. __Large scale, small scale. The population__ of- _and it trailed a large number of the presumable populations, of which some reached into the millions. Not that it mattered- any loss of life was unacceptable.

"Codes uploaded."

He confirmed, resting his hands on the centrepiece for the briefest of moments, before feeling empty and returning his grip to his gun, which had been on his back, lying abandoned and unused. There was an itching of impatience as Price and Soap alike stared down the map as if they could intimidate it into stopping the missiles. Which wasn't how life worked, but one could hope.

_Confirming, confirming. Stand by._

_It's difficult to standby you dipshit when countries are at risk of being honest people might day. _Of course, Soap knew better than to verbalise this out loud, but inside his conscience where nobody could hear him, it didn't matter necessarily, unless he chose to act it out. Which he would never because it went against what it meant to be a SAS officer- or whatever you wanted to call it.

Even Price was getting slightly antsy, curling his fists around the mag as if it had personally seen to the demise of the UK. Echo seemed distracted almost and carrying on his previously observed behaviour, it was easy to see that his heart wasn't completely in the game. If one could call it a game. Don't misunderstand Soap, Echo was paying attention. But it was the kind of attention that one would pay to a teacher: observant for some of the time, and tuning out the rest.

That was a dangerous thought, for one of two reasons: one, it could lead to himself or someone else getting shot, or killed, or _worse, _and two, it was even more out of character for him to be paying attention to something else other than the mission itself. Yet right now, it was no place to be asking if he was okay- in fact, it was one of the worst places to ask that question. He couldn't afford to sow distrust amongst Bravo Team, and he couldn't afford to potentially unsettle the man even further.

It was as if he was gearing up for a one-man war, one that nobody knew about, and one that he wouldn't have support on. Like a black ops mission, few of which they actually knew about.

_Bravo Six. All warheads are confirmed destroyed. Repeat, the warheads have been destroyed in flight. We have a tonne of debris and electronics, but most of it is landing in the ocean._

_Bravo Six, this is Kilo Four Foxtrot. Zakhaev is leaving the base via helicopter. Confirmed visual, being uploaded now._

And sure enough, Zakhaev was getting on a helicopter, the rotor-blades spinning furiously as the helicopter prepared to leap into the air. _Just what we need- the bastard getting away after all this. This time, he's going to go so deep underground that we won't find him. __From one disaster to another, if we let him get away, he's going to do worse: if that's even possible._

"We've got company!"

Echo called out, as he audibly gritted his teeth. They pushed to where Echo was, by the door frame, and Soap narrowed his eyes. There was the briefest hesitation before they ducked behind the doorframe, the sounds of Russian yelling echoing down the corridor. There was a hesitation before one of them spoke, in heavily accented English.

"You're boxed in- surrender, and we will be merciful."

Price gave the hand signal to hold and hold they did. Itchy trigger fingers aside, they hadn't forgotten about their little trap, and there was the sound of two hauntingly quiet footsteps trailing down the corridor. Two more, followed by a very rude Russian curse, and then the party started. Explosions like a symphony erupted, and reverberated around the narrow tunnel, along with the smacks and yells, splats of blood and the acrid smell of smoke and burning flesh.

Another hand signal- this one for caution and care- was given, and the three of them carefully paced down the corridor in a triangle shape, checking their corners and putting down any unlucky survivors of the blast. The green hue of the NV goggles washed out any other colour, making the world a very dull place while they were on.

They also placed some amount of strain on a person's eyes, and it wasn't uncommon that you could get headaches from them. After some amount of fighting, they made it to the elevator, meeting up with Gaz and Griggs along the way, who looked as stony-faced as the rest of them.

"I want this bastard dead."

Echo murmured hollowly, with a cold, dead voice. The rest of them looked to face him, perhaps thinking along the lines that "he needs to see a psychiatrist", before Gaz pressed the button to shut the cage. Price narrowed his eyes, scrutinising Echo, before answering with a stubborn tone, staking his claim on the man.

"Get in line."

* * *

[Game Over]

_[_Day 36 - 15:55:17]

[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Sgt. John 'Soap' MacTavish]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

They'd ended up hijacking a vehicle. A jeep-like car, which had an open back. The road was untarmacked and rough, bumps jostling them every which way despite the attempts to counter correct. He and Echo were in the back, rifles nestled against the bars, taking shots at their following entourage.

It was difficult to shoot, to say the least, but their saving grace was that the entourage was only coming in bursts of two or three. Although, they had all been reminded that Gaz's driving was atrocious- even if it didn't look like Price, Griggs, and a couple of other SAS soldiers were having much fun either.

"Aim for the tires if you don't have a clean shot!"

Soap yelled at Echo, who stiffly nodded, pressing the trigger of his rifle, the bullet ricocheting off of the metal chassis of the car. There was the briefest grimace and beginnings of a yell before Gaz called out for them to hold on. Soap lunged to the side, gripping onto the side of the jeep, ducking in an attempt to shield themselves from the spray of bullets. There was a sudden intake of breath, sharp and harsh, from Echo as he was slammed violently against the wall, an uneasy crack sounding.

Soap's eyes quickly shot towards Echo, as the car settled uneasily, a hasty apology from Gaz from upfront. _It's not his fault these roads are dogshit. _Narrowing his eyes at Echo's form, there was nothing particularly telltale about any injuries: other than the sound he'd heard when Echo slammed into the side of the car, there wasn't anything else obvious. And the man, like always, kept it hidden, no matter hard he pushed.

"Echo, you alright back there?!"

Gaz shouted, unable to turn around as he navigated the rocky terrain. Soap, keeping down low, looked at the man, but there was no flinch of pain or anything like that. He just looked determined, a glint in his eyes that never normally moved.

"I'm fine."

He told them, springing back up to provide cover fire. The ensuing gunfight, like always, was arduous, exhausting, and Soap just _knew _there was an injury that the man was hiding. He wanted to check it out, to apply field medicine, but he just knew that he wouldn't be able to do that in the middle of a gunfight.

They entered a narrow tunnel, swerving from side to side, avoiding oncoming cars who blared their horns. Tires screeched, further making it difficult to aim thanks to both the noxious fumes and constant swaying of the vehicle, making it difficult to even hit a target.

_Tango on your left! They're going to ram you, keep an eye out!_

They skidded to the left side of the truck, before being forced down as a spray of bullets landed where their heads had been a few seconds earlier. Soap popped back up, firing a clean shot at the head of the driver's head, a bloody mist covering the windscreen. The truck promptly lost control as it veered towards them, forcing Gaz to swerve out of the way, trying to avoid being hit. They ducked down again, and braced, closing their eyes, praying that it didn't hit.

"Your driving is shit Gaz!"

Soap snapped at Gaz, as they careened on the road. There was the slightest bit of hesitation, as the man's eyes hyper-focused on the road, having a fight with the steering wheel almost. They fought off some of the following trucks as the light at the end of the tunnel became visible, Gaz finally answering him.

"You try avoiding oncoming traffic _and _hostiles!"

With the light of the tunnel came not only more space, but relief. But it showed something he hadn't been able to see in the dim light of the tunnel- a pool of blood, running across the metal plating of the back. It was small, but there were no doubts about where it had come from- and the pale, determined face of Echo only served to prove it.

* * *

Author's Note

Thank you for all of the support! It means a lot to me!

~Cait


	22. Chapter 20 - The Upcoming Finale

_"If you are far from the enemy, make them believe you are near."_

_~Unknown_

* * *

[Game Over]

_[_Day 36 - 16:12:17]

[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

_[22nd SAS Regiment]_

So, he'd gotten shot. Twice actually, although one of those could hardly be classified as a shot. One had impacted his shoulder but had been largely deflected by his tactical gear. It hadn't penetrated the skin, and nothing serious had happened. He'd have a nasty bruise there, but hey ho, better than a through and through. The other shot though, well, that one was slightly worse.

Not life-threatening, not mission threatening, but an annoyance all the same. It had gone through just below his hip, skewering through his flank with ease, the bullet still lodged in there. He could feel the bullet lodged between flesh and bone, embedded deep within, a burning pain only confirming the injury. Of course, being slumped in the back of a moving vehicle, he didn't have to try and walk on it- not yet, anyway.

He had tied a tourniquet onto it, all the usual medical practises, and while the rib-bruising smack into the side of the jeep had hurt, it was negligible. But it was evident that Soap didn't think the same, as his eyes widened at the small pool of blood. _It's not the time to be worrying about a little gunshot Soap. We've got a terrorist on our hands- one who is going to wipe out half of Bravo Team if we don't end him now._

"Shit, you've been shot!"

Soap exclaimed, moving over towards him to look at the wound. He pushed Soap down, forcing him to duck behind cover, as Echo moved himself up to eliminate another truck. There wasn't much time until they reached the bridge, and he didn't want Soap or anyone else to be distracted by his injury when all hands needed to be on deck.

The road was quickly narrowing, rough rocks dislodged by the stampeding vehicles, whirring rotor blades ominous in the background. _Damnit. __I'm not sure what's worse: __getting killed by Life and Death, or watching these men I've come to appreciate die._

"I'll be fine! Focus on the chopper!"

_Shit! It's going for the bridge! _

They cried out in unison, and Echo forced himself up, to get a better aim. It was veering left and right, out of control, it's guns rocky and unable to focus on the actual bridge. Bullets ricocheted off of the chassis uselessly, Echo might as well had screamed at the thing to fall and not _shoot the bloody bridge, _for all the use it would have done.

"Fuck! Brace for impact!"

Price screamed as screeching tires and screaming breaks became audible, the jeeps fighting against the rubble-road to stop. They kept shooting- there were no other trucks following them- at the chassis, but to no avail. They got ready to brace as Gaz slammed on the breaks, but there was an explosion and the heatwave.

Echo looked up and saw the helicopter go down in a bluster of smoke, falling through the air like a comet. The helicopter that had Zakhaev in it was ahead, but Echo didn't get much time to concentrate on that fact, thanks to the whole world suddenly tilting in on itself. There was the sound of a yell as the truck tilted, skirting dangerously on two wheels.

The ground came up close on them, and there was the sudden crack, his neck snapping back, a burn-like feeling climbing up around his body. There was the sound of something clattering against the ground, some more yelling, before a great pressure forced down his head, subduing him and almost paralysing him with a choking intensity. A creeping cold feeling climbed up his spine, and as the sound of shattering glass cut through the silence, Echo found himself thinking a final, conscious thought- _even when things change, it always ends up the same._

* * *

Asphalt hurt. If you'd ever bellyflopped into a swimming pool from a great height, imagine that, but intensified tenfold. Rock scratching at your skin, tearing it off like strips from meat. Blood surrounding you like water, running over the terrain with little difficulty. Your squadmates, scattered in the wind, limp on the ground, blood mixing with your own. The quiet sound of the valley, the bridge between sides whole and complete, their vehicle a flaming wreck.

Petrol snaked its way into the mix, creating one noxious mix that was just about ready to ignite the minute a spark latched its teeth onto the liquid. Echo forced himself up as things came back into perspective with a pounding headache and foggy vision. Pain radiated up and down his form, and he took a second or two to take stock of his injuries.

A quick shuffle forward and an attempt to stand told him his already injured leg had become worse- broken, from what it felt like. The light-headedness and the pool of blood surrounding him told him that he'd lost quite a bit of blood- not quite lethal yet. The pounding of his head suggested at least a severe concussion, if not something fractured, and his ribs were tender, a blotchy purple creeping up then, surrounding them painfully. _At least two of them are broken. _

There was the sounds of a helicopter lowering down to the ground, a whipping of dust as it was violently torn from the ground thanks to the force. _So this bit hasn't changed. _Gritting his teeth, he analysed the rest of his team, calculating a plan of action in his mind. Price was dragging the unconscious Gaz behind cover, looking the most well off out of all of them. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and his uniform looked dishevelled.

_B__ravo Six. __This is Kamarov. __Bravo Six, are you there? Bravo Six- if you can hear me, we're three minutes out. We've got aid on standby!_

His hat was discarded in the mess, near some of the rubble, but apart from that, he'd made it out fairly unscathed. Gaz, still unconscious, had what looked to be a dislocated shoulder, bent slightly out of place. His hair was heavily matted with blood, and his holster distinctly lacked any kind of weapon. His ankle was bent upwards at an angle, signifying it was broken, and they were only the injuries that he could see.

Still, the steady rise and fall of his chest signified that he was still alive, so he hadn't failed his mission just yet. The ground started to move, and he groaned somewhat unintentionally, looking up to see Soap, favouring his left side as he dragged Echo behind some cover, making it look like an easy feat. Soap himself didn't look too worse for wear, despite being catapulted out the same place as Echo.

He was favouring his left side heavily, leaning with heavy breath as he carried Echo, who was admittedly dead wait. He flailed with his limbs, trying to push himself forwards to aid Soap, but they were heavy and uncoordinated, reminding him too much of when he'd been knocked unconscious before. He hooked a rifle with his foot, sending it skirting towards them as the helicopter- the one that contained Zakhaev, because the man loved to gloat- touched down, unloading four men, and the grizzled Zakhaev himself.

It made sense in a way- he could make an example out of the men that had taken his son, and in doing so, could have some leverage with the United Kingdom and the United States. It was a smart plan, save for the fact that _Echo would never let it happen._

"_Zakhaev's here! Get behind cover!"_

Griggs had been dragged by one of the few remaining SAS members, and there were strewn bodies near the crash site. Soap let him down, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, much to Soap's annoyance. He curled his feet inwards, using enough force to send the gun up to him, picking it up as steadily as he could.

"I seek vengeance for my son. British, American, whatever country you may come from, I warned you about taking my blood. His capture will be paid for in blood, spilt because you did not heed my demands. I am a reasonable man, but you have been a thorn in my side, as well of that of my sons, and it has gone on for too long. I look to send a message, and that message will be sent now."

The sound of bullets followed, and he forced himself to lean around the side of the impromptu shelter, firing a small flood of bullets towards Zakhaev, aim wild and uncoordinated. Gaz was still unconscious, Soap and Price were huddled behind cover, Echo himself was limited as to what he could do- not that it would stop him- and Griggs was also unconscious, huddled by Strafe the backup.

"Stay down!"

Soap hissed from Echo's side, pushing him down with one hand. Echo shook his head furiously, a blaze of emotion filling him. _There was no use not fighting if we end up dead anyway! _He clenched his fingers in order, before gritting his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn't wear away. The sounds of gunfire only served to make Echo nervous- if he fucked this up, there were no second chances.

This scenario was marginally better than the one that would normally occur- there was no bridge limiting their evac. There were fewer men thanks to his sabotage of the helicopters, and nobody was dead yet. But this part was familiar- having to hold out until Kamarov could arrive. Bravo Team was scattered and faint, this only confirmed as Price called out for a sitrep, the answer coming from Soap, since he was the second-highest in rank next to the currently unconscious Gaz.

"Gaz is unconscious, sir. As is Griggs. Strafe and Semper are conscious, though Semper has a dislocated shoulder. Echo is also conscious, though critically injured. I will be fine- suffering from minor injuries. Sniper Team 1 and 2 are re-routing from the evac to come to our aid, and Kamarov is three minutes out."

Zakhaev, the bastard, kept pressing forward, and with many of their members down for the count, they were forced to hold their ground. Echo gripped his gun with white-knuckles, keeping his breathing steady and calm, despite the agonising amount of pain that shot through his body every time he so much as shuffled position.

While Echo was used to great amounts of pain by now, there were so many injuries, all of them inflicting him at the same time. They were compromising his capability to complete the mission, and the pain just stacked upon one another until he couldn't ignore it any-more. He was one of the best at compartmentalising, but even then, he was still affected by pain. Just as much as any normal person. He just had an ability to push past it, but even that only stretched so far.

"I'm going to fight Soap! Regardless of whether you want me to or not- I'm dead even if I don't fight! At least this way we have a chance!"

Let it never be said that Echo couldn't be compassionate. He'd learnt some things recently, and it had brought some realisations to him. Things he'd noticed, but never dwelled on. All it took was a change in perspective, and chinks in his armour appeared, small and steady. But one small crack in a fortress could bring the whole thing down, and he couldn't allow himself to be compromised.

Whether this whole scenario would repeat one day again, or he'd have to watch them all die… or someone else he'd grown to like, that was in the future. He could cross that bridge when he came to it because _his _squad was what mattered in the here and now. His squad, and _his _mission. Soap popped out of cover, firing a spray of bullets before cursing.

_He's down to his last clip. _Soap didn't comment on his speech at all, and his eyes were too busy being trained on the hostiles. So, Echo took some executive action. It took him a while, but he slowly balanced himself on his knees, huffing quietly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it hidden.

He slowly forced himself so that he was in a ready to stand position, sweat dripping down his body at the effort. The small pool of blood continued to increase as Echo slid his gun over to Soap in a weak gesture, an attempt to lull the man into a false sense of security. A false sense that would make Echo out to not be planning something evasive. Once Soap was distracted yet again, Echo pulled out his pistol, which had been stuck in his holster. It was scuffed all along the barrel, the magazine slightly jagged at the end, but it had a few bullets in it.

A few bullets were all he needed. His pistol was shortly followed by his combat knife as he tested the blade, tearing apart sinew with ease. Echo's muscles coiled in preparation, the burn reaching from head to toe, vibrations going down his spine, as Soap finally ran out of ammo, shortly thereafter followed by Price. Both men were resigned to their fate but were going down swinging.

In their hands, they each clenched their respective knives, an unspoken agreement amongst the two of them. They wouldn't go down willingly. Ignoring his injuries, his life, the burn and the agony, those relying on him, he slowly moved around the other side of the cover, under Soap's nose, just as Zakhaev approached forwards, spinning his pistol once in his hand.

"Say goodbye… Price."

He never got to finish his sentence as Echo pounced, much to the shock of Price and Soap. His broken ribs met Zakhaev's solid ones, and from close range, his gun fired deep into Zakhaev's stomach, the heat burning both Echo and Zakhaev himself. With his other hand, his knife slashed across his throat, resulting in a distressing gurgling sound as the man fell to the ground- but not before firing a shot from beyond the grave.

And as Echo fell to the ground, helicopters in the background, adrenaline and strength leaving him, there was the dull burning of a gunshot wound, somewhere in the torso. There was the sound of hasty Russian and emergency evacuation orders, but Echo's eyes slid shut, everything becoming muted, making a sacrifice that he didn't consider a sacrifice. _A sacrifice that was inevitable, like many of mine. Even if I faced death, __never to be awoken again, I would not consider this a sacrifice. My duty, my right. They live while I die- a fair trade._

"Come on Echo. Come on _James."_

* * *

Author's Note

Arc 1 is soon coming to an end. While I write Arc 2, I'll be posting a new story in the meantime.

On another note, I'm having severe problems with my internet at the minute, so I'm going to get this up while my wifi is alive.

~Cait


	23. Chapter 21 - Intermission

_We know we're coming full circle with God when we stand at a very similar crossroad where we made such a mess of life before, but this time we take a different road._

_~Beth Moore_

* * *

Unsurprisingly, everything was black for a short while. No matter where he walked, how fast he went, or how far he could see, it was just inky unendingness. For a moment, Echo thought that maybe Life and Death had caught on to his dissent. His inner rebellion, his lack of confidence surrounding the role he'd had since his creation.

But the blackness… it was almost warming somehow. It wasn't cold, unfeeling. There was no lingering pain, no shivers crawling up his spine. There was a warm blanket surrounding him, and despite looking around, he saw nobody. Nobody that is, until a man approached, tall and proud. He was wearing a draped cloak, white in colour with red highlights at the bottom.

He had shocking blond hair that stuck up in every direction, held up in place with a headband, with a metallic band. Underneath the cloak, there was a green-like vest, covering up a bright red shirt, with a fishnet-like armour covering underneath that. With blue trousers, he completed the look with black sandals, more like boots in appearance. The man looked up at him with vibrant blue eyes, two whiskers on each cheek, shocking him to his soul, as Echo received echoes of the past- of his past.

The man smiled at Echo warmly, although Echo was still on the defensive of it all. He knew the man- or at least, he had an inkling of what universe the man was from because the features were distinctive- but he didn't know who the person was. He bowed respectfully and politely, and not wanting to be rude- despite his hesitancy- he bowed in return.

"It's nice to meet you, Guardian. I apologise for all of the secrecy."

He stepped out of his bow, looking directly at Echo, who furrowed his brows slightly, curling in his fingers in order, but not in an aggressive way. It was surprising that he was still in a human body, instead of the spherical ball of energy he was normally subjected to- and though wary, he doubted this was Life and Death. It could be an elaborate trick, sure, but there was just an instinctive feeling of trust and kinship.

"May I ask who you are? And where we are?"

The man smiled, waving his hand out to the side. A small ball of blue energy emerged before it hit the ground. Grass revolved around the spot of where it hit, and it expanded outwards rapidly, flowers and blooming trees growing.

There was a large gate just behind the man as the blue sky appeared, and behind the gate, there was what seemed to be a village, although the streets were empty. There seemed to be a large mountain behind the gate, and there were faces engraved into the rock, detailed and almost alive. There were seven in all, all having different features adequately represented despite the single tone nature of it all.

"I go by Mitsuo now. Mitsuo Uzumaki. We're in a different plane at the minute- not your universe, not mine, but one in between. One without Life and Death's reach, reserved for us and us alone. But for now, I bet you are wondering why we are here."

Echo's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Life and Death. Capitalised. Nobody knew of the actual entities save for he, and the mysterious man from before who had taken down the helicopter just like he promised to. Echo recognised the name as clear as day- one of the more eccentric universes that he'd had the pleasure of visiting.

It had been rewarding in a way, it had taught him a lot of skills that could be transferred from place to place. He nodded, crossing his arms slightly as a very authentic feeling breeze surrounded him, cooing like a child to its mother.

"I am. Are you related to the man who saw me before?"

The newly named Mitsuo tilted his head slightly almost inquisitively. He was lost in thought for a moment, before realising something. There was an air of wisdom and power surrounding Mitsuo, and he sounded much older then he looked, considering he looked to be about middle-thirties. He nodded as he began to walk towards the village, gesturing for Echo to follow him.

He did, wondering where this rabbit hole was going to lead: if anywhere good. There was some charm about Mitsuo that seemed to attract everyone to him like a magnet, his mood infection, latching onto people like a parasite. It was an ability that could prove useful, able to approach the most closed of hearts. An ability that could be used for good, or evil, to help or to manipulate.

"Oh, you must be referring to Nate. Don't mind him- he's old and gruff. A big supporter of human rights, and hates when people are twisted. One of the first of our kind, if you're inclined to believe me."

He tilted his head curiously, as they walked through the village, the streets empty. The signs were written in Japanese, the symbols as clear as day to even Echo. The place was almost open and comforting, despite it all. It almost lulled Echo into a sense of false security, silently willing him to drop his guard. It was eerie, seeing a place where it should be populated, but it was empty.

"Anyway, I was chosen to speak with you, since I was the Guardian before you."

Echo froze in place, in visible shock. He was beginning to think it was some kind of fever dream, some kind of trick, something that had happened while he was unconscious from that wound. Mitsuo seemed light-hearted enough, which raised a flag for him. If he was truly the Guardian that he succeeded, then why was he so open and carefree? Why was there no malice or cold or apathy that he'd fought with?

"I represent the organisation that helps those like us. To free us from our servitude."

He continued on, Mitsuo having a narrowed expression. It was guarded, and he thought, for the briefest of moments, that maybe he'd misjudged the man in some way or form. It wasn't enough to make him relax his guard, no, not at all.

He'd always thought that the previous Guardians had been killed, wiped away, leaving no trace. He had never been told about them, only being told to avoid the mistakes that his predecessor had made. To be perfect, and never falter. But he'd failed at that spectacularly if he was here- but was it really such a sin to develop a conscious.

"How did you pull me here? What happens… now?"

Mitsuo disappeared and repeated on the roof just next to Echo. Knowing the man wanted him to follow, he slipped into a character long discarded and materialised next to him, as they ran across the rooftops, hands outstretched behind them. It was almost reassuring to revisit the places in his past, even if he knew that the next time he went, nobody would remember him. Such was his fate and a dreary one at that.

"When you become unconscious, your hold to the universe you're played in becomes weaker, easier to manipulate. While you are unconscious in your current universe, your mind was simply pulled here. The body you have here is just a construct. And as to what happens now- that's up to you. We can free you from your servitude, and place you in a world of your choosing, or we can do whatever you want. We're not going to force you into anything."

"What happened to you?"

He smiled, softly, almost endearingly, at Echo. There were a wide array of emotions that went through the man's face. Love, endearment, adoration. Mitsuo stopped running, and the blue ball from before appeared in his hand. Mitsuo crouched down, and placed it gently on the roof-tiles, before the ball spread out like before, displaying the forms of many people.

One was the mirror image of Mitsuo himself, with the same bright blue eyes, and whiskers, though the man had three of them. He looked to be younger then Mitsuo, early twenties it looks like. Though they were blue and translucent, certain aspects of the form took on colour, such as the yellow tinge to the hair. Next to the man, there was a girl, her eyes pure grey. There was no pupil within her eyes, but she had dark purple hair. Between the two of them, there were two children, both young looking.

Next to them still, there was a girl with vibrant pink hair, the colour of sakura blossom. There was a young girl between her and the man with the red eyes, and the blackest hair. Lastly, there was a woman, with tumbling brown hair that fell to her lower back, with a newborn baby in her arms, with his mother's hair, but his father's blue eyes. A miniature whisker covered each cheek. Her eyes were warm and comforting, eyes a life filled green.

"I got a family. My brother, and his wife. Their two children. My friend and his wife, and their daughter. My beautiful wife, and my son, my kin. Something I thought I'd never have, but got in the end. I got my freedom."

Echo looked at Mitsuo as the image dispelled, settling like the rolling sea over the beach. Echo felt a sense of urgency, because after all, the last he'd seen, his squad were all dying or fatally injured on the floor. While he couldn't feel the pain here, more of a dull ache than anything else, the people he had grown to accept as his own were in an unknown condition.

But why… why this iteration of his squad? Why not any of the other people he'd met before? There was almost a weighty blanket weighing down on Echo, of all the things he'd done, of all the people he'd seen and been forced to give up on. The control that Life and Death had on him for so long. Was he really worth this? He'd done plenty of horrible things, things he hadn't even regretted at the time. Cutting down whoever he was told, manipulating relationships, setting things up that were destined to fail.

"But after all the things that I've done, is it really worth all of this?"

Mitsuo growled at him, an oddly inhuman sound. Echo's eyes widened slightly, as the man took a second to school his features, and orange fire almost flickering in his eyes. When he spoke again, he spoke with an undertone, much deeper and refined. The growl was angered, and an inhuman look overcame the once calm man.

"I thought the same once. When I was put into this brat."

The word was said with some fondness, rather then an insult like Echo thought it might have been once upon a time. The man in front of him was no longer Mitsuo, but rather an avatar. An avatar that had power seeping off him like waves, similar to Mitsuo's own, but more intense. It was concentrated enough to visibly pour off the man, the elegant robe flickering around him, orange sparks leaping.

"I lost a lot of things being sealed into Mitsuo and Naruto. As did the two of them. I lost my immortality, my siblings, but I gained a sense of pride and humility. Those two lost their childhood, their parents, their village because of me. But, through those two, I was able to redeem myself."

He paused, casting back in thought almost. Echo looked down, feeling chastised. And for once, it genuinely affected him. It wasn't something he was feigning, the words, instead of burdening him, were almost lightening him up. He couldn't look away from Mitsuo's eyes, intense and giving him shivers.

"What's the point of existence if your actions aren't your own, Echo? What's the point if you have nobody you can care for, nobody you can call your own? Even I was never truly alone: I had my siblings. But what do you have? You have those who you are waiting for, but you don't let them in. You don't let them know who you truly are?"

The avatar, like the orange glow, subsided back into him, the intent he was feeling being absorbed back into him, revealing Mitsuo's blue eyes. There was a short smile on his face as his entire form relaxed, but he still looked somewhat solemn.

"What I gained far outweighed the downsides Echo. I got a family, and if I had to give up my knowledge of the future, then so what? I still gained more in the end. I don't have to play a character any more, I can be me. How many have you kept away in order to be the Guardian? Have you thought about just being Echo, or whatever identity you choose?

I can be myself. Mitsuo Uzumaki, Jinchūriki of the Yin half of the Kyuubi, Kurama. Son of Kushina Uzumaki and Minato Namikaze, brother to Naruto Uzumaki. That's all I have to be, no one more and nobody less. That is what I got, and everybody deserves that: the chance to be their own person. You deserve happiness and free will, not servitude and torture. Now… I think it's about time you wake up."

Echo didn't get the chance to ask anything else as his surroundings fell into obscurity, and the oddest sensation of cold water being thrown on him jarred him back to where he'd likely be- a medical bay somewhere. And for once, he felt uplifted about the future. There was a sense of self that he'd not had before.

* * *

Echo came too in a ward in Germany. His legs were bound up tightly, in swaddled bandages, and his arms were wrapped up in the same. He was wearing a nondescript hospital grown, and his whole form stung violently with pain, unable to be soothed. Small pads were on his chest, hooked up to a machine which monitored every beat of his heart. His gut was churning, every movement sending a searing pain, and his head was foggy and confused.

He remembered what had happened, with sickening clarity, of course, he did, but he wanted nothing more than to focus on the task at hand. To distract him from the insubordinate thoughts. He had so much more to work through… his squad to help save. Every thought and action was given another thought of consideration- knowing that the wrong decision could lead to death. A lesser man would be tempted to be in it for himself, but that was not the kind of person Echo was.

"Echo min. You awake?"

The drawl was difficult for Echo to understand, the words bouncing meaninglessly around his head. No matter how hard he focused on them, they bounced uselessly around his head. Echo had never quite felt this weak before, and he'd been around a very long time. It was as if something was leaching out of his body, only further fuelling his exhaustion and tiredness. Despite the familial drawl not making much sense, he could pinpoint the name and accent.

Soap MacTavish. He repeated his words, this time coming out much more lucid. Shutting his lids and yawning, he focused on the hazy eyes of his teammate, covered in bandages but not bedridden. He was standing next to Echo's bed, in simple clothes- a plaid shirt and casual jeans. It was an odd look considering that Echo had only seen the man in army garbs before, but even in his state, he could assume that he wasn't on duty.

"Yeah…"

He answered slowly, hesitantly, his accent the faintest whisper. Soap pushed the button that would summon a nurse- Echo really didn't want to deal with one of those at the minute- before gently trying to push himself up, recoiling at the stabbing pain in his stomach. Soap pushed him back down, gently, and for once, the man couldn't bring it in himself to push back.

"Zakhaev's dead. We're all alive- thanks to you. It was an incredibly risky thing you did- and I don't wan to be in your shoes when Price comes a calling."

* * *

Author's Note

So, the last chapter is going to be the end of Arc 1. I'll be taking a break from this story to write Arc 2, in which I'll post another story in the meantime. The next Arc will have much less emphasis on this "Guardian" concept, and by the time Arc 3 rolls around, Echo'll basically be a normal soldier.

I'll see you next time!

~Cait


	24. Chapter 22 - The End of an Arc

_"You just stay the course, and do what it is that you do, and grow while you're doing it. Eventually it will either come full circle, or at least you'll go to bed at night happy."_

_~Jon Bon Jovi_

* * *

It took him a while to recover after his injuries. It took _all _of them a while to recover. They were put on strict rest under threat of being faced with a charge of insubordination if they disobeyed. And while Echo was bored out of his skull, he'd had no unwelcome visits since the last one. He'd of _thought _that someone else would come and lecture him about what went down, or about his choices or lack thereof, but he'd been left alone with his tumultuous and tortuous thoughts.

For the first time, he had no clear idea of what to do or where to go. He was aimless, floating without cause or purpose. He knew that there would be more events he'd have to participate in: including the task force and being disavowed. He just wasn't sure when it would occur. He was teetering with unsurity, feeling his muscles wasting away, his instincts dulling. But there was no chance for him to start training, for him to be in peak condition.

Insubordination was something he couldn't afford to be stuck with because that would hurt him later. _Plus, _he thought, as he shuffled upwards, still feeling the jarring sensation of every rib bristling, _I doubt I'd be able to do much with __stubbornness__ alone. _As it was, he could barely walk, stuck with slow healing and an eagle-eyed team, who were also injured in their own rights. _I hate physiotherapy. As if I don't know how to deal with my own injuries. _

He grumbled, reaching over for a glass of water, his jug halfway empty. He tensed his right arm, flexing it inwards and outwards, trying to get his muscles to respond, to move like a slick oiled machine instead of a broken and disused one. They'd been moved out of the German ward a week ago, once they'd all been deemed as safe to travel. They were back home in Credenhill now, and though he was reluctant to admit it, the burr of British accents was slightly comforting.

Whether it was some long lost memory of Echo's or his own preference, something about British accents just made him feel calm. There was a tablet fixed on the table, idly showing some TV show that Echo had tuned out of. Another predictable plot that Echo had seen coming from the first seconds of it being introduced.

"Echo min. Fancy going walk-about?"

He blinked, staring Soap down with furrowed eyebrows, also flicking his gaze to the crutches that were leaning against the side of his bed. _What's he playing at? Last I checked, I was on strict bed rest, and wasn't allowed out of my room apart from to go to the mandatory therapy and physiotherapy. _

"Thought I wasnae supposed to leave my bed?"

He commented dryly, adjusting his position, and tapping on his casted leg to prove a point. The thunk it made was hollow, but his leg was so swaddled up that it felt like his leg was swallowed with a big cushion. Soap shrugged, moving over to the window and throwing it open, seeming much less stern than he usually was.

"You aren't. But you're gonae go mad stuck in here lik a caged dog."

Soap backtracked to Echo's bed, and held his crutches, offering it to the man as he slowly shifted positions, his breathing picking up ever so slightly. _It's never taken me this much effort to get out of bed before. _He grumbled, hands curling around the crutches that he'd begun to hate. He carefully pushed himself out of his bed, leaning half on Soap, and half on a crutch.

"I figured you wouldn't take a wheelchair. Now come on, we'll go out to the garden fae a bit. They won't even know yer gone."

"I hope so, else yer dealing with my insubordination charge."

Soap rolled his eyes, helping his comrade out of the ward, shouldering his wait. _Thank you Soap. I was beginning to think I was about to commit murder __in an attempt to alleviate the burden. There's only so many times I can see the same four walls, the same grisly sky._

"I'll make sure you dinnae get a charge."

"This is refreshing Soap. Thanks fae taking me oot here."

Soap nodded in acknowledgement, shifting his leg. The grass surrounding them was almost too vibrant for the United Kingdom, the sky far too blue. The grass, long enough to curl around their legs, was untrodden like nobody had dared tread here since the grass had grown. Daisies and dandelions and daffodils grew all around, and for an army base, the area was calm and tranquil, very little hustle and bustle and stress.

"My pleasure. I heard a couple of rumours about a promotion in the works."

They chatted amicably, not broaching upon the topic of Russia. They were steering well away from that topic, something only to be discussed at a later date. There were a lot of traumatic experiences in that, and even Echo himself wasn't unaffected. _Well, I'm happy for him. _And Echo was because Soap deserved the promotion after all the duress he'd been through, the situations he'd been forced to work through.

"Congratulations."

He told him honestly, adjusting his legs on the grass, accidentally kicking the crutches off to the side. Stretching his legs and flailing them, he allowed himself to focus on him and his teammates, and that was it. Any other thought was thrown aside to be dealt with later, as was his usual coping mechanism. It wasn't a good one per se, but it worked for him, and that's what mattered. Soap shook his head, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. _What?_

"It's not just me in line for a promotion Lad. There's talk o' you becoming a Sergeant."

Echo's eyes widened slightly, as he tilted his head, accepting the offered glass of water from his friend. Raising it to his lips, he took a sip before diplomatically placing it back down. _Me? A Sergeant? _He hadn't really thought it was an option for him, with everything considered. He'd been injured on most of the missions he'd gone on, had gotten captured once, and hadn't had the best of experiences in the squad.

"Really?"

Soap nodded in confirmation, picking at a strawberry- who knows where he'd gotten those from. His disbelief was evident on his face it seemed, because Soap rolled his eyes again, tossing the stem of the red berry to the side. Echo took one and chewed on it, tasting the sweet flavour- unlike the tart ones he'd gotten used to having.

"Yeah. They're talking about making a new taskforce: _141\. _Price'll be heading it from what I've heard, the rest is hush hush."

Echo tilted his head in faux interest- well, not really faux, he was interested- ignoring the brief burning of his arms, and the receding numbness of his legs. There was a brief chill in the air that curled around them every so often, sharp enough to be noticeable, and cold enough that it was a refreshing change from the climate.

"That's interesting. I assume we'll find out where that's going soon."

* * *

He was back in his bed, staring listlessly at the four walls. There was something dull and depressing about the four white walls that caged him in, making him feel like a wild animal, kept ensnared in a trap. Besides his teammates, his only visitors was the physiotherapist and plain old normal therapist, both of which he didn't want to see.

The physiotherapist was a grump, and downright sadistic. Poking at all of Echo's cuts and bruises, jeering at him that "_what, you're a soldier? You'd better get walking then, Shorty." _Echo was not short goddammit. He was 6ft 2 goddammit, he just looked small because of his constantly bent legs. It had been tempting to punch the man, and he wasn't about to let his plaster-clad arms stop him, but he'd fought against it by sheer force of will.

A court-martial wasn't something he had in his plans. The therapist, on the other hand, was too gentle, too coercing. "_And what did you think about that?", "What do you think about your parents", "What are your memories surrounding the last mission." _It was like she thought he was walking on eggshells, waiting for a chance to explode, a ticking time bomb.

Talking about what had happened wouldn't change anything, and it wasn't like he could talk about _everything else _without being branded a lunatic and ending up in a psych ward. They weren't fun places to be. He would know. The whole situation was loathsome because he couldn't even wash himself: he felt useless, like a former shadow of a human.

There were no physical bindings keeping him to the bed, and he couldn't get up any time he wished. But it certainly felt like he was chained there, thick and heavy, weighing him down far better then anything else could. He pushed himself up against his bed, looking at the documents marked _"Top Secret" _that Price had been by with half an hour previously, to let Echo have a look at them before he came back to collect them.

Was it slightly irresponsible? A little bit. But with Echo stuck in the hospital ward with no near estimated time of leaving, and the files needed to be read as soon as possible, then it was the only real option. _"Lieutenant James Gibben, __call sign__ Echo, from Lockerbie, Scotland." _

It continued on with a bunch of his personal information, lifted straight off of his personal record. It contained the list of all his attended missions, his background, his personality, and his list of assignments. It wasn't very long, with his longest stint being in Bravo Team: every other time, he'd just been where he'd been needed, an extra numbers kind of thing.

Continuing on, there was an addendum, written by nobody else then Captain Price, practically singing Echo's praises._ "Recommended for promotion to Sergeant after a stellar performance __during his time with Bravo Team. Proposition to be made recognising Lieutenant Gibben for Task Force 141 as a close-quarters specialist, but only after he has passed the required assessments, and has made a full recovery." _

_O_f course, that left Echo wondering what was going to happen regarding Price- after all, he was supposed to be in a Gulag right now, but here he was, going around Credenhill like it was a normal state of affairs. He rubbed his plastered arm, resisting his instinct to itch at the plaster, continuing to skim-read the rest of the document, accrediting his signature at the bottom, in loopy and messy left-handed shorthand.

Setting them to the side, he chewed the tip of the pen in an odd gesture, looking at the lined paper in front of him. At the top, it simply read "After-Mission Report" and that was as far as he'd gotten before pushing it to the side. _A paragraph at a time right? _He thought to himself as he began to lay out the beginning of the mission. Upon seeing the length of his first paragraph, he huffed slightly to himself, resisting the urge to slam his head against the desk.

_I'd rather not die via paperwork… _There were some things even he didn't like.

Echo did not flinch at all when he had to deal with Price later that afternoon, the man starting the lecture he'd been waiting for. _How could you be so sacrificial? You flatlined twice on the table. We didn't think you were going to pull through. _Echo has shrugged, a stupid move, and had answered as simply and as honestly as he could. _It was me or you. Me or the team. It was a simple decision to make: one life for the needs of the many._

Price had not been amused and had come back the day after with even more paperwork. _Sadistic son of a bitch._

* * *

A month or two had passed, and Echo had been allowed to return to his dorm, which had been untouched in his absence. He could almost imagine the thin layer of dust that would be coating both his sheets and his things. He could hobble around unassisted, even if his leg was still plastered, but he still had to visit the physiotherapist and therapist once a week.

It was better than his previous every few days, but still a nuisance. Still, his bed was as he remembered leaving it, before that clusterfuck of a mission, and everything that he could say was his was still there. Even a small framed photo that was of a smaller version of Echo, surrounded by his parents. There was some form of detachment from himself and the photo, and it felt like it hadn't been him, that it was someone else.

And that wasn't exactly a lie in the grand scheme of things. The paper that had gone through, cementing his ascension to Sergeant. Truthfully, he wasn't sure of what it meant for him, and he wasn't sure how to feel. Happy? It was a big change for him, and not just in terms of team dynamics. He wasn't the FNG any more, and his squad was being shuffled up. Gaz was being assigned to head a unit of his own but wasn't joining the new Taskforce 141.

_I think that's more of a blessing then he realises. _But what changes did Sergeant bring, besides that? It was just a title, a change in how he was referred to. Everyone outside of the original Bravo Team and Macmillan referred to him as Sergeant, which was a lot more difficult to get used to than one would think.

A normal person would be happy about their rank up: but he was just nonchalant. And nervous, the feeling of trepidation refusing to leave him. _There's so much I've got to think about: my new title, the upcoming missions… the whole thing with that guy and my sense of self… I'd rather not think about it and ignore it, but I don't have that courtesy. That luxury. I can't afford to run and hide like a child: not that I know much about that. _

He looked at his hands, calloused from holding rifles, burn marks marring the pink skin, and he just couldn't recognise them. They weren't _his. _His fists curled together, hiding the unrecognisable skin from his view. A shiver went down his spine, along with a chill in the air as he stared out of his window, looking at his body with disgust.

_The only thing left for me to do is train, and keep everyone off of my back… friend and foe alike._

* * *

Author's Note

And that's a wrap for Arc 1. To be honest, this isn't my favourite story when it comes to the other ones I've written. I feel like this one was underdeveloped in terms of plot, and that the characters just aren't interesting. The idea of the "Guardians" is also underdeveloped, and I think that maybe the story would have been better had they just been omitted.

Regardless, it's been a lesson learnt. Maybe I'll come back for Arc 2, maybe I'll rewrite this one as a more traditional story. I guess we'll wait and see!

Thanks for all of the support, and I appreciate all of your reviews, favourites and what not!

I'll see you around, and stay safe!

~Cait


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